


Involuntary Admission

by Quantumphysica



Series: The Crack Book Of Arda [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Love, Doom Is Coming. Brace Yourselves!, Drama All Over, Hurt/Comfort, Immature!Tulkas Has Bad Ideas, Irmo Has No Sense Of Direction, Manwë Is An Idiot, Mistreatment Of Deceased Kinslayers, Multi, No One Ever Listens To Oromë, Námo Has Issues, Surreal Dreamscapes, The Valar Wreck Mandos, There Will Be Pie Fights, This Is Crack. But Not Really. If You Know What I mean., Valar!Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantumphysica/pseuds/Quantumphysica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ages and ages of worrying visions, nagging fëar, and being hated/feared by every living creature have left their trace on Námo... No wonder thus that at long last he starts to behave a little... erratic. When even his wife Vairë gets concerned, the Valar decide to drastic measures...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Tell Mandos

**Author's Note:**

> This story borders on crack, but it isn't. It is really ridiculous humor that actually has a plot. And there is also drama and romance and hurt/comfort involved, so it's not hilarity all the time. But it's humor, so I do hope you will laugh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vairë has some disconcerting news for her fellow Valar...

The Circle of Doom had been called together, but it was missing one crucial element: its Doomsayer. Vairë had been very peculiar about that when she made the request for the gathering, Námo Mandos was not to be told anything about it. Such a request, coming from the Doomsayer’s wife, was certainly disconcerting… They had all heeded it. When at last Ulmo –the perpetual latecomer- arrived and took his place in the circle, Manwë coughed for attention.

“Vairë. You requested an urgent meeting of the Máhanáxar… Now we have gathered, tell us of your reasons.”

The Weaver of Stories hesitatingly spoke up. 

“It’s about my husband, Námo. I… I fear he has… lost his mind.”

Immediately there was worried whispering in the circle. Manwë coughed again to bring the Valar to silence.

“Explain yourself.”

“He… It’s hard to explain. It started long ago, after the unchaining of Melkor. I think he knew of what would happen, to the trees and Arda... But he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t warn us. You know he can only proclaim his dooms when commanded. And then the doom of the Noldor, and the wars… He sees all the fëar of the dead, he hears their stories and sees the damage the war has done to them… I weave the history of the world, watching it as an observer, but he… he sees it through the eyes of the weary and damaged.” She waited a moment. “I know you think of my husband as a cold, stoic person, someone without mercy, without compassion… But he is not, and all the sadness he has hidden over the years has started to… to eat away at his mind.” A tear ran over her cheek, shocking the other Valar. “He is losing himself more and more, and the visions of the future are too much for him to bear now. They have become waking nightmares for him from which even I can’t rouse him. Sometimes he doesn’t even recognize me…”

Nienna got up to comfort her sister in law, while the rest of the Valar exchanged concerned glances and shared thoughts not for Vairë to hear. It was Irmo who spoke up first.

“I can help him, but he would have to let me. In all the ages of our existence he hasn’t once allowed me, or Estë, to help him with the weight of his burden. If you could convince him…”

Vairë shook her head.

“He won’t leave his Halls, not ever. Even in his delirium he is hopelessly devoted to his task, although he is barely capable of performing it anymore. Not to mention that he always made a point of never asking for help.”

Tulkas boomed,

“Then we just have to force him! Oromë and I can catch him easily, and then bring him to you!”

That caused Irmo to indignantly glare at the Vala of War.

“You can’t force mental help on someone, Tulkas! The person has to allow you in his mind, otherwise it’s an act comparable to rape!”

Manwë sighed.

“I see your point, Irmo… but if Vairë is correct then there may be no other way. If your brother is truly this ill, he cannot be held responsible for his choices, and therefor we can’t allow him to choose whether or not you treat him."

The Master of Dreams glanced unhappily at the crying women, and then at Manwë. 

“If you’re planning on kidnapping my brother and bringing him to me for treatment, then who will run the Halls of Mandos in the meantime? Even in illness Námo has been performing his task, and we can’t have the fëar of the dead without supervision…”

Varda smiled and answered before her husband could.

“That’s easy. We will take over from him until he’s better.”

Ulmo remarked,

“Who will take over? Some of us have tasks to tend to as well…”

“We’ll switch, take turns. Irmo and Estë don’t need to take a turn because they’ll be looking after Námo, and Vairë needs to weave, but the rest of us can certainly take over for a little while, no?”

They all had to admit that Varda’s plan wasn’t bad. After all, how hard could it be, running the Halls of Mandos? First they had to capture the Doomsman though, and that wouldn’t be an easy job if the Weaver were to be believed…


	2. Watch Out, He Bites (Or, How To Catch A Vala)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immature!Tulkas and VoiceOfReason!Oromë head out to the Halls of Mandos to hunt for Doom...

Armed with a special net Aulë had especially made for the purpose of trapping one Námo Mandos, Oromë and Tulkas left for the Halls of Waiting. Oromë was worried about the Doomsman, and wondered in what state they would find him. Tulkas just seemed elated at their “adventure”. When they were sneaking into the grey halls, Tulkas remarked gleefully,

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“What?”

“That we went on a hunt together.”

“This is not a hunt, this is an intervention.”

Tulkas grinned.

“Yes, and we’re intervening with arrows and a net. Which makes it a hunt! We’re hunting for Doom today! You’re called the Great Hunter, I thought you’d be a little more excited…”

“You are really incapable of taking anything seriously, aren’t you?”

“I am capable, I just prefer not to. The world is boring enough without having to be serious about it all the time.”

Oromë sighed and shook his head. The Vala of War was his best friend, but mature he definitely was not. Knowing that it was no use to continue on the subject, he said.

“So, how are we going to go about this?”

“We seek him out, and then you shoot the net at him so he can’t escape, and then I’ll catch him.”

“He’ll be caught in the net already.”

Tulkas laughed.

“Ah yes, but getting him to Irmo won’t be easy, caught in a net or not!”

They had slipped into the Halls effortlessly, but now it was a matter of finding Námo. After passing through room after room full of fëar –who were frightened, impressed, or unmoved by their presence there- without seeing a trace of the elusive Doomsman, Oromë grumbled.

“I wonder if he has ever tried to have a map drawn of this place. I had forgotten it was this big.”

The Vala of War shrugged. 

“Lots of war, means lots of dead people, so there’s a lot of fëar to house. It seems logical to me that the Halls are big. Imagine they wouldn’t be! I mean, if you were dead, would you like having people in your personal space all the time?”

Oromë didn’t know what surprised him more, that Tulkas spent time pondering over such completely useless hypotheses, or that he was familiar with the concept of personal space to begin with.

“I suppose it would be uncomfortable.”

“Totally. I don’t think we’ll find Námo like this, by the way. Why don’t you just blow your horn, and we lure him here?”

Now there was a good idea. Oromë blew his horn, and as the loud tone echoed through the dark marble halls, the Doomsman appeared from thin air. He looked… well, Vairë hadn’t been exaggerating; he looked horrible. He was even more gaunt than usual, his black hair was unkempt, black circles adorned his deep-laying eyes, and his expression twitched between anger and fear. Oromë didn’t waste time, and before their target had even opened his mouth he shot the net at him, successfully binding his powers. The tirade of curses that exited the Vala’s mouth when he realized this made even Tulkas raise an eyebrow… Oromë tried to apologize.

“We’re really sorry…”

“No, I’m not, this is hilarious.”

The Great Hunter glared at his mirthfully grinning companion.

_Not Helping, Tulkas._

“It’s for your own good… We’re just going to bring you to your brother and he’ll help you, and you’ll be back in no time.”

The reaction to that was immediate.

“No! Not my brother! PLEASE! Don’t bring me to Irmo! There’s nothing wrong with me! Let me go you spawn of Morgoth!”

Tulkas smirked and simply picked up the struggling Doomsman and threw him over his shoulder, net and all. 

“I said LET ME GO!”

To put force in his words, Námo bit down hard on the first piece of his captor he could set teeth in. Tulkas frowned.

“Did you just bite me? Námo, did you just actually bite me?!”

Námo answered that question by repeating said action, making Oromë sigh.

“Just so you know, Mandos, you’re not really helping your case here.”

“Argh!”

“If you don’t stop biting me I’ll be obliged to bite back. And I warn you, my teeth are bigger than yours.”

That seemed to stop the Doomsman from setting his teeth in Tulkas, but it didn’t stop him from screaming, cursing and clawing to get out of the net… As they entered the Gardens of Lòrien, Námo was having a full-blown panic-attack-slash-temper-tantrum, screaming and kicking in his restraints. Irmo and Estë, who were waiting for them in the healing house, looked worried. With a wide and triumphant grin, Tulkas deposited his screaming catch on the bed.

“One Doomsman, freshly caught! Watch out, he bites.”

When Irmo looked shocked, Oromë nodded.

“Unfortunately… he does.”  
  
Irmo restrained his brother, who was still in the net to prevent him from escaping, and tried to calm him, to no avail.

“Námo, calm down, it’s just me!”

“I will not let you in my mind and I won’t let you put me to sleep! You can’t force me!”

“I’m not going to force you. You know me.”  
And as he said that, Námo’s movements stilled. His breathing calmed, but it was clearly not by his own free will, as he frowned at his brother. He already sounded drowsy when he glared and said,

“How is this… not forcing me?”

“I’m not forcing you. I’m simply allowing your mind to feel its own exhaustion. You’re falling asleep all by yourself.”

“I h-hate you.”

“I know, and I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day. But now you really need to rest.”  
Incapable of fighting it any longer, Námo’s eyes lost focus as he surrendered to sleep. Irmo sadly looked at his brother.

“I’m so, so sorry that I have to do this to you…” Then he turned to the other Valar. “Can anyone get Aulë to release my brother from this net? I can’t treat him like this and he won’t be going anywhere soon anyway.”

Oromë and Tulkas were happy enough to go, having done their duty of Doomsman-hunting…


	3. The (Not So) Very Good Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Manwë has no common sense, and Thorondor is surprisingly down-to-earth for a bird.

Being the Elder King usually meant that Manwë got to have the last word in things. Now however, it meant he got to have the first shift of Fëar-Sitting in the Halls of Mandos. Giving the good example and all that… It wasn’t very hard, doing Námo’s job. The fëar all neatly responded to the call of the halls when they got separated from their hröar, and he didn’t have to go seek out any disobedient dead. Not having a lot to do, Manwë just sat on the Doomsman’s throne and stared at the ceiling. He missed his airy halls on Taniquetil already… In truth, the Halls of Waiting felt like sitting in a cave; there was dark black marble everywhere, and not a single window. And to add insult to injury, Námo’s throne was terribly uncomfortable. Manwë didn’t know that the Doomsman barely ever sat there, so he wondered how in Eru’s name Námo kept his butt from going numb.

It didn’t take long before the absence of blue sky, snow, and eagles started to affect Manwë. Talking to no one in particular, he mumbled.

“I can see why Námo went mad here… This place is horrible… I’m going mad too, look at me, I’m already talking to the walls…”

He had to do something, and he could better do it quickly before he lost his composure to lack of fresh air and claustrophobia… The best solution would be going home, but thanks to him having to give a good example he couldn’t really abandon the job halfway his shift. No, then the next best thing would be making Mandos’ Halls more like home… and Manwë happened to know exactly how to go about that. A little later, the cries of his eagles echoed through the usually silent halls, and the temperature had dropped several degrees under zero. After adding a “borrowed” pile of pillows from Vairë to it, the throne was a lot more comfortable, and Manwë stretched out in satisfaction with his redecoration efforts. Pristine white snow piled up on the marble floors, soft layers of ice crystals covered the dark walls and seemed to light them up, and from every ridge hung artfully twisted icicles. His eagles weren’t exactly happy to have to stay inside, but luckily Námo’s ceilings were high enough to permit indoors flying. No, Manwë was quite content. Like this, it wasn’t half so bad having to sit there and do nothing… and those pillows were really exquisitely soft… he should ask Vairë if she could make some for his halls, Varda would sure love that… Boredom, familiar sounds, and very soft pillows eventually caused the Elder King to fall asleep. He would have been perfectly happy to lie there and sleep for the rest of his shift –it wasn’t as if those fëar needed anything from him- if not for the sounds of anguish that woke him… 

“Huh!? Wha…?”

He startled up, hearing… well, wailing echoing through the halls. And then his eye caught Thorondor, his favorite eagle, sitting in front of the throne. With its heavy voice it stated.

“Manawenûz, I never thought I’d say this, but… you’re an idiot.”

In complete confusion, Manwë forgot his dignity somewhat.

“Huh? What? What did I do?”

The large bird shook its head.

“Lots and lots of ice. Noldor elves. Wails of anguish. Rings a bell, perhaps?”

Manwë blinked.

“Err… no?”

If eagles were capable of facepalming, Thorondor would have done so. 

“The Helcaraxë, maybe? Most of the elves who died in the Grinding Ice haven’t been re-embodied yet.”

Well, yes. That rung a bell for Manwë. He looked at his pretty white decorations, not understanding how those could bring anyone to wail in anguish. They were pretty!

“But… it’s just a bit of snow!”

“Yeah, here in this hall it is a bit of snow. They’re having a blizzard, three rooms to the left from here. You really shouldn’t mess with the weather inside a building.”

Oh. Right. 

“I… I see…” Manwë pensively bit his lip. “Thorondor, why are you telling me this?”

Again, the great eagle had the urge to facepalm.

“Well, you’re currently holding the position of Lord of Mandos, so you’re supposed to do something about it.”

“But they’re all dead already anyway, what harm can a blizzard do?”

“The Halls of Waiting are supposedly a place to heal from the weariness of a past life. I don’t think much healing is being done with the fëar reliving their traumatic deaths, really.”

For someone nicknamed the Breath of Arda, Manwë was really surprisingly dense at times, Thorondor thought as he watched the positively confused Vala. He greatly respected the Elder King… but in this matter it seemed Manwë was clueless as could be. The eagle helpfully provided;

“You could start with making it stop snowing.”

“Right. Good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I know that Manwë is the wisest of the Valar, but wise and practical aren't necessarily the same thing. I always imagined that Varda is the one who takes care of the practical things on Taniquetil, while Manwë hangs around and amuses himself with his birds and his snow and his great insight in the Music.   
> Also, I don't know if the Eagles could talk, but I figured that Manwë sure would be able to communicate with them. And Thorondor is really down-to-earth for, you know, being a bird basically.  
> Feedback is always appreciated!


	4. Finding Námo Part I: Have Another Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo enters his brother's mind, pies are being thrown, and Morgoth has some sensible advice to share. This is only just the beginning...

Irmo sat next to his brother, worrying and fighting his conscience. He never entered anyone’s mind unless they gave him explicit permission; forcefully breaking in was a violation of someone’s most private and personal parts, often dangerous and traumatic. It went against all his morals... but from what he had seen and felt, his brother was beyond giving permission, and he did need help. Irmo had allowed Námo to sleep for a while, but his mind showed little sign of healing itself. The Vala of Dreams now had to choose between forsaking his duty -which he would never do, especially not where his brother was concerned- and forsaking his morals, which he would never do either, normally. Normally being the key word there. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes and tentatively stroked his brother’s mind with his own.

_Please brother… let me in… don’t make me do this…_

Námo kept his mind firmly closed off to Irmo.

_I don’t want to hurt you. Please let me in, I promise I’ll be careful._

Still the older Vala gave no answer, not even a sign that he had actually heard his brother’s plea. Irmo braced himself.

_I’m sorry for this. Please forgive me._

Focusing his power, he cut through his brother’s mental defenses. He met quite a bit of resistance, but it was all instinctual, Námo didn’t consciously put up a fight. It allowed the Vala of Dreams to get in more easily than expected, but it was also worrying. Was his brother so far gone that he couldn’t even defend his own mind anymore? Irmo hoped not…

* * *

  
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in the Halls of Mandos… or better, Námo’s mental projection of them. They looked exactly like the real halls, dark and ominously enormous, yet they were devoid of fëar. Carefully, Irmo took a few steps. His footsteps echoed through the black marble chambers, but further nothing happened. Normally, when he entered someone’s mind, he could feel their conscious in the projection, like a presence behind thedécor. This projection however was lifeless, as cold as the stone it seemed to be made of. It was eerily silent.

“Námo?”

No answer. He hadn’t really expected an answer, but still… the silence was deafening, and the lack of conscious presence more than a little disconcerting. As he knew his way around the Halls quite well, he decided to simply walk around for a bit and see if he could find a trace of his brother…Suddenly he heard voices. 

“Have another pie!”

SPLAT!

The sounds came from down the corridor. Irmo hastened towards it, and was met with a rather peculiar sight. In the middle of a room stood a large table, loaded with pies of all sorts; cherry pies, apple pies, chocolate pies, pumpkin pies, meat pies, lemon pies, elderberry pies, and even what Irmo suspected was a mud pie. It was a rather strange sight, but no matter how strange the presence of large amounts of baked goods in Mandos might be, at the table sat a collection of people that was even stranger. Chained to a high-backed chair sat Melkor, or Morgoth as they now called him. Apparently the chains did allow him to eat, because he was rather happily munching on a piece of strawberry pie. On the left side of the table stood a pie-covered elf that Irmo identified with a little effort as Maeglin. On the right side of the table stood an equally pie-covered elf that he suspected was Eöl. 

“It’s all your fault!”

“Really now? I didn’t betray Gondolin, did I?”

SPLAT!

That was a pie for Eöl.

“You made me as I am! You cursed me!”

SPLAT!

That was one for Maeglin.

“You ran away while I gave you everything!”

SPLAT!

That was a badly aimed pie hitting Morgoth.

“Excuse me, some people are trying to eat here!”

“SHUT UP!”

The two elves chorused as one, and then aimed their pies at the chained Vala. They both hit target, but Morgoth remained unfazed. Daintily he tasted from the pie he had gotten against the side of his face.

“Hmm, chocolate.”

Irmo blinked. What in Eru’s name had happened to his brother’s mind? While he stood there in the door opening, the Dark Vala noticed him.

“Oh gentlemen, we have a guest!”

Immediately, Eöl and Maeglin turned, both armed with a pie. Inadvertently, the Vala of Dreams took a step back.

“Err… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Oh, you’re not interrupting, there’s enough pie for everyone!”

“You just have to pick a side first.”

“A… A side?”

“Yeah. Who of us is right?”

Irmo looked disbelievingly from one elf to the other.

“But… you were both wrong!”

Morgoth shrugged.

“That’s what I’ve been saying for ages, but…”

“SHUT UP!”

From below two new pies the Vala continued, slightly indignant

“But as you can see, this is what I get every time. No one appreciates honesty here.”

They were just projections of Námo’s mind, Irmo reminded himself. They were not actual fëar... The whole situation was rather surreal. The threesome was looking expectantly at him; Morgoth was mysteriously free of pie remnants again, the other two… not so much.

“What are you doing here then?”

“If you’re not picking sides, you should get out.”

“Or share his fate.”

They pointed at Morgoth, who smiled charmingly. Irmo swallowed thickly, not wanting to get covered in pie, imaginary or other. 

“I’m looking for my brother Námo…”

The fighting father-son pair looked up in surprise.

“Really?”

“He’s hiding. We’re not supposed to tell, but…”

“You’ve always been rather good at telling things you’re not supposed to, haven’t you?”

“Have another pie, father.”

SPLAT!

“As my son so treacherously betrayed, the one you seek is hiding. You won’t find him!”

Morgoth had helped himself to another slice of pie, and remarked.

“Well, I would help you look for him, but as you can see these fashionable adornments…” He held up his arms to show the chains, “don’t allow me much liberties. Besides, these are some really good pies. You should have a slice.”

“Could you… perhaps point me in the right direction?”

The three of them solemnly nodded, and then pointed into three completely different directions.

“Of course. This way.”

“Don’t listen to him, it’s that way.”

“They just disagree for the sake of it. It’s through that door, and you better watch out for shiny things there.”

Irmo decided to go with Morgoth’s direction, as he seemed the sanest out of all three of them. Which was a surprising thing, actually. But “watch out for shiny things”? He had a very bad feeling about that…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Námo's mind is a strange place... and Irmo isn't there yet, far from... Also, shiny things? Ehehehe... xD


	5. Friends In High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yavanna decides to cheer up Nienna, an effort of herculean proportions that doesn't stay without consequence for long... (Unfortunately, that consequence is not exactly what the Halls were waiting for...)

They had, after the debacle with Manwë, given the control of the Halls to the only logical choice there really was: Nienna. Not only was she the sister of Námo, she was also the Valie of mercy and pity. When they thought about it, they were all mystified as to why Manwë had been given a first try. He was about as unqualified as one of his eagles to do the job! No, Nienna was cut out to do it. So she left to the Halls, and the other Valar thought their issue was finally solved… That was, until Yavanna decided to haul about her favorite Maia, and pay Nienna a visit on the job.

“My Lady, I do think I have very urgent other obli…”

“Now Aiwendil, don’t you try to get out of it! You know how much need poor Nienna has for social contact; she has such fragile moods! As her friends we are obliged to visit her and try cheer her up.”

Aiwendil believed trying to cheer up Nienna was a bit like trying to put out the fire in Aulë’s furnace with a tiny watering can. Try as you may, the means were simply not fit for the end you wanted to reach. That of course he couldn’t tell his lady. The Queen of the Earth and the Valie of Pity had been good friends since they had been responsible for the Two Trees together, and in all that time Yavanna had never given up trying to brighten the crying Valie’s mood, undeterred by consequent failure.

Yavanna dragged him and a picnic basket into the Halls of Mandos, looking for Nienna. The halls were very wet, with half-molten piles of snow still laying around in the corners, and in many of the chambers the ground was stained with what Aiwendil skillfully identified as eagle excrements. Manwë clearly hadn’t done a lot of effort to clean up after himself, and apparently Nienna hadn’t busied herself with it either… The fëar they encountered were all in a rather strange mood, and as they proceeded to the central hall, they found out why. Long before they reached it, they could hear the sounds of heart-wrenching wailing echo through the structure. On Námo’s throne sat Nienna, and she cried like she hadn’t done since the death of the Two Trees…

“Nienna my dear, what happened?”

The Valie looked terrible; her face, which was usually adorned only by a couple elegant tears tricking down her cheek, was inelegantly bloated from crying, and her eyes were bloodshot from the deluge of tears that was apparently coming from them. She sobbed loudly.

“I… I feel so… so sorry for them… T-They… I must listen to them… h-hear their stories… but it’s so much… worse to know each story p-personally than… t-than to know t-the fate of Arda itself alone!” Her words were muffled by crying again. “I wish to… t-to heal them all, cure t-their hurts… but I… I can’t help it Yavanna it’s so horrible, I’m so sorry! All the time!”

Nienna cried out of pity, and her tears and cries healed the broken and despondent… but there were simply too many broken and despondent fëar in the Halls of Mandos, and the poor Valie had most likely been crying non-stop at alarmingly high rate ever since arriving there. She must be near exhausted!  
The Queen of the Earth shook her head and walked up to the throne, wrapping her arms around Nienna and patting her on the back while the Valie cried against her.

“Oh my poor dear… There, there… Sssh…”

Aiwendil watched it all, while having mixed feelings about the whole plan Yavanna had come up with before they came here. It featured the contents of his picnic basket, and somehow he had a distinct feeling that it wouldn’t end well. However, there were some things you simply didn’t say to your lady, so the once-Istar held his tongue.

“You need to relax a bit, don’t you my dear? I had Aiwendil bring just the thing for that, you know!” 

There you had it. Aiwendil presented his basket, and Yavanna rumbled a bit in it, finally settling on an item she deemed appropriate.

“Here you go, Aiwendil’s cake. Aiwendil makes the best cake in Valinor, my dear; have a piece, it’ll sure make you feel better!”

He wasn’t sure if he made the best cake in Valinor, but he sure was the only one to make that particular brand of cake. Worriedly, he watched as Nienna unwittingly munched on a slice, still crying her eyes out. Yavanna happily took a piece for herself, and practically ordered her Maia to enjoy his own baked goods too. Aiwendil took a slice and inwardly sighed before taking a bite. Common Sense, meet Window. Window, meet Common Sense…

* * *

Cake wasn’t the only thing hidden in the Maia’s picnic basket, and after the three of them had eaten a whole chunk of Aiwendil infamous baking, they had no more qualms with finishing the rest of the basket’s contents too… 

“I… I feel so light, Yavanna…” 

Nienna still sobbed, but her eyes had gotten a bit of a strange sheen to them. They were lying on a picnic blanket in the middle of the throne room, and Yavanna chuckled.

“Like a bird…”

“Yeah, exactly, like a bird…”

“Marvelous cake, Aiwendil… Do we have more?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady… But there are cookies still!”

“I love your cookies! Pass me one!”

“Cookies…” Nienna chuckled while crying. “That’s such a funny word…”

Some time later, Aulë wondered where his wife had gone, and guessed she would be in the Halls visiting Nienna. He needed to speak with her on some personal matters, so decided to go find her. In the Halls he was met with many, many confused fëar, lots of highly unexpected… greenery? And a herbal smell that he unfortunately knew quite well. The rooms near the entrance only suffered from some mosses and grasses, but the closer he came to the throne room the thicker the vegetation became, with bushes around his legs, climbing plants winding over Vairë’s tapestries, and even a tree here and there. The smell was also becoming rather pungent. When he got through to the main hall, he was met with quite an interesting sight.

“Oh, conjure another treeeeeee, I love treeees!”

“And biiiiiirds!”

“First we need more diiiirt!”

“Dirt rhymes with biiiiird!”

“Ya-Yavanna I can’t stop laughing I’m laughing so hard that it hurts!”

“There’s the diiiirt, here’s the seeeeed, and now, grrrrrrrow!”

“A treeeeeee! Oh this is so funny… Aiwendil why is that bird changing colours?”

Instead of wailing, laughing echoed through the halls now. The picnic basket was near empty, and all that was left was Aiwendil’s pipe and pipe-weed, which they had lit and now passed between the three of them. Yavanna summoned large heaps of ground from her gardens, and worked her magic with the many seeds she always carried with her. The main hall was already filled with plants and trees of all kinds, and even a couple birds to please Aiwendil, and the vegetal mess was spreading from there, helped by the Queen of the Earth’s slightly uncontrolled magic. Nienna was having a laughing attack, crying from laughter now while making silly rhymes and falling over every time she tried to get up. Yavanna and Aiwendil weren’t in a much better state, despite being more used to the effects of the Maia’s weed cake and mushroom cookies.

Aulë couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the three disheveled Ainur. The Maia he knew as Aiwendil was hugging a tree while telling it how much he loved it, his own wife Yavanna was encouraging her plants to grow with a childish sing-songy voice while smoking a smelly pipe, and Nienna was rolling through the dirt, laughing uncontrollably for some reason.

“Yavanna?”

She looked up and squeaked in delight.

“Oh Aulë! Marvelous to see you here! How do you like my plaaaaants? Don’t they look lovely? Yes, you are lovely my little dearies you are, you are!”

She was coddling some kind of bush. Aulë blinked a couple times in disbelief, half thinking he had stepped into a prank of Irmo. It wasn’t a dream however, and the threesome in front of him was truly higher than Taniquetil, on Eru knew what. Most likely those horrid mushrooms Yavanna's Maiar liked to grow.

“Yavanna, get a hold of yourself!”

“Oh, oh, Aulë! You’re here too! How great! We ate all the cookies, but look at my plants! They’re great!” She got up and whirled around, laughing, and then swung her in the arms of her husband. With wide, unusually shiny eyes and a husky voice she asked, “Will you rip the clothes from my body now, and fuck me in the bushes like it’s still the first age? It’s been so long, my love... Won’t you hump me like a rabbit, Aulë…”

Aulë really didn’t know what to think of it. In all sincerity, he was tempted. It had been a long time indeed. But when he looked at the rest of the motley crew, and saw that Nienna stumbled around giggling and on the verge of passing out, and that Aiwendil was having a very deep philosophical conversation with an invisible bird, he decided against it. At least for the moment. Too bad. He swung Yavanna over his shoulder, and headed for the Valie of Pity. Nienna looked gigglingly at him, tears still running over her face. 

“Ya-Yavanna… w-why are you upside down?”

Cheerfully the other Valie responded

“I’m gonna have a roll in the hay with my husband. Isn’t that great?”

“That’s funny!”

And promptly Nienna's eyes turned away and she dropped limply to the floor, completely out of it but with a blissful smile on her lips. Sighing, Aulë picked her up as well, and threw her over his other shoulder. Then he called out to Aiwendil.

“You, take care of the Halls. I’ll be back.”

He doubted that Aiwendil would do a lot of active caring, given the state he was in, but at least he wouldn’t wreck the place any further for now. Carrying one unconscious and one sexually frustrated Valie to safer grounds, Aulë wondered what Eru’s plan behind all this could be. It was moments like this that truly convinced him that they all lived purely as comic relief for the great deity…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yavanna and Aiwendil: getting people high since the creation of Arda! xD  
> Nienna is the first true victim to fall in the "Tending of The Halls"... I expect her to be delivered to Estë to sleep it off and regain her senses a bit... And let's hope for Aulë that Yavanna is still up for it by the time they get home, no? :D


	6. Finding Námo Part II: Shiny Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irmo gets lost, and that's the least of his worries, really.

Irmo left the pie-room and its odd inhabitants behind him, going through the door that Morgoth had pointed him to…   
The moment he stepped over the threshold, he was out of the marble halls, standing into a forest instead. The door vanished into thin air behind him… The forest didn’t feel familiar, and it looked like a strange crossover of all the forests of Middle-Earth, with tall Lothlorien trees in hues of silver and gold standing brotherly next to dark and twisted Mirkwood trees. The door had dropped him in the middle of the place, and it didn’t take long before the Vala of Dreams was lost. Despite the great variety in trees, every bit of forest looked like the next, and he had no clue as to where he was actually going. Most likely he was walking in circles. For a moment Irmo thought it was his brother leading him astray, but he quickly discarded the thought. The forest was another mental projection of his brother, but just like in the halls he couldn’t feel Námo’s conscious presence in it. Any getting lost was completely on account of his dodgy sense of direction.

Suddenly he heard the ruffling of leaves above his head. A strangely familiar voice resounded.

“Mr. Irmo, I presume?”

“Err… yes?”

He looked up, but didn’t see anyone… Until the mystery person parted the leaves and gracefully jumped down, landing neatly on hand and feet before the Vala. Irmo couldn’t really tell what species the creature was; it looked mostly like an elf wearing strange black clothes, but the very prominent cat ears, thick furry tail, whiskers, and somewhat claw-like nails made that an unlikely idea. It looked at him with large, orangey-golden cat eyes, settled in a very cat-like pose, and daintily licked its hand (paw?) before speaking.

“I am Maira-Meoi, and you better thank me for saving you.”

Maira-Meoi, Admirable Cat. Irmo’s eyes widened when he finally recognized the face of the creature. Sauron, who had once been called Mairon… He didn’t know what to say.

“How… how come you are…” he gestured to the ears. Maira-Meoi shrugged and folded his tail around him. 

“Who knows? It doesn’t really matter here. We are what we are, and sometimes what we are not, and no one really cares why.”

Irmo blinked a few times, wondering if that was some sort of riddle he was supposed to solve.

“You said you saved me. From what?”

“You’re getting lost. Hopelessly lost. And the further you will go the lost-er you will get, up to the point where anyone who can find you isn’t someone you want to be found by.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. But, now you have me. And I happen to go in the same direction as you do, so I can show you the way.”

“How… how do you mean, you’re going in the same direction? Do you know what direction I’m going in then?”

Maira-Meoi scratched behind his cat ear, and sent Irmo a “really now” look. 

“You’re looking for something lost, and so am I. Obviously we’re heading in the same direction.”

This was the mind of a mentally instable person, so slightly dodgy logic was to be expected from its inhabitants… Irmo sighed and nodded. He had followed Morgoth’s directions to get here; he could just as well let this cat-maia be his guide now. And so Maira-Meoi led him on a confusing, winding path through the mass of trees…

* * *

  
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

“We’ll get there. Better watch out, there’s some dangerous things lurking between here and there.”

And right after the cat-maia had said that, Irmo noticed that the forest was getting darker. The canopy got thicker, and gradually he noted that the bark of the trees began edging towards black more and more. Perhaps following this odd Sauron-cat hadn’t been a great idea…

“Is this the right way?”

“How am I supposed to know if it’s the right way? It’s the way that will get us there, and that’s all what matters. Right and wrong are very relative concepts, you know.”

The forest quickly became grimmer, and when Irmo brushed with his hand over a tree… he realized it wasn’t a tree at all. It was a very good imitation of a tree, made out of darkly colored metal. Less and less light reached them under the metal trees, and Maira-Meoi’s eyes glowed eerily orange in the darkness... When Irmo spotted strange threads of glittery silver hanging between the trees, he began feeling badly at ease. This definitely hadn’t been a great idea…

“Maira-Meoi, where are you bringing me?”

The cat-maia didn’t answer, only mewed softly and urged for Irmo to follow him further. Not wanting to be left alone in the metal forest, the Vala of Dreams did so… There were more glittery silver threads hanging between the trees and over the path with every step, and Irmo tried his best to avoid them. If they were what they made him think of, getting entangled in them would be a very bad idea…   
Suddenly he heard voices other than his own or the cat-maia’s… They sounded crystalline and female, urging him to come closer simply through their tone… 

_“Ten proud Noldor, they made a family, convinced that surely fair the end would be, though still one refused to follow on their errantry…”_

A flickering light could be seen through the metal trees, and Irmo felt a very strong urge to follow it. Maira-Meoi noticed, and mewed loudly. 

“Don’t stray. If you follow that light you’ll be stuck here forever!”

Irmo took a deep breath and continued to follow the resolute cat-Maia… but then there was the song again, closer this time. 

_“Nine proud Noldor, left to the Hither Lands, high were the spirits and blood was on their hands. Still one was left behind, on the jeweled sands…”_

They were singing a haunting nursery rhyme, about a subject that was not at all suitable for children… Between the trees, Irmo thought he saw the silhouette of a child in the flickering light. Before he could even set a step in the direction of it though, he felt sharp claws pierce his hand.

“Stay. On. Track. They’ll lead you to your doom. They’re evil. Tricksy.”

“What… what are they?”

“They’re no good, just trust me on that.” 

They must be the shiny things Morgoth had warned them for… Irmo clenched the cat-maia’s paw as they walked through the forest, trying not to listen to the eerie girl’s voices that echoed between the trees, trying not to watch the deceptively bright lights that shone on their path… 

_“Eight proud Noldor, when they burned their boats, forgot to check if they all were on the road, and so one of them got torched up with the loads…”_

Irmo kept his eyes closed, but he still heard the song. It gave him the chills, and there was ever more the compulsion to go into the direction of the sound... His whole mind was focused on not giving in to it. Maira-Meoi pulled him forward, mewing encouragingly. 

“Almost… *meow*… there…”

Suddenly the light was really bright, and Irmo opened his eyes. In front of them, on a clearing, three little girls with long shiny hair were dancing in a circle. Their voices were high-pitched and piercing, and their skin brightly lit up in the dark…

_"Seven proud Noldor, all prepared to fight, set out to conquer those pesky stones of light…”_

Then the girls noticed them, and ran away in different directions, excited screaming and giggling interrupting their song. A moment later, the forest was dark again. Maira-Meoi’s eyes shone angrily.

“Tricksy little silmarils… Always trying to bring people off the right path…”

Irmo shook his head, finally released from the spell that the song had put on him. Those little girls were the silmarils? The Vala of Dreams wondered what else the disturbed mind of his brother would come up with. He was glad that cat-Sauron had kept him on the right path, odd as that might be. Getting lost in someone’s mind was very dangerous for both the patient and the visiting healer, and that Namo had been able to put such a spell on him of all people, his brother and fellow Fëanturi, said a lot about how powerful the Doomsman really was. Yet despite that, the Vala of Dreams couldn’t feel a spark of Namo’s presence… Where was his brother hiding? 

When Irmo looked around and realized how thickly the silver threads were roped around and between the trees, forming intricate webs of deceptively thin metal, he really hoped that those weren’t what he thought they were… It might be true that the conventional villains hadn’t given him much trouble up to now, but he still didn’t feel like meeting Mandos’ mental version Ungoliant or her spawn…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics of the silmaril song are part mine and part my sister's. She's 11 and great at finding rhyme words. The song was mildly based on the many other count-down nursery rhymes that have been invented over the ages. (And yes, there actually is a melody to it, believe it or not. If you want people to think you've lost it completely you can try to sing it out loud xD)  
> The complete lyrics:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1050217  
> (sorry, I suck at html and don't know how to put in links.)


	7. The Marsh of Mandos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NoNonsense!Ulmo saves the day... or not?

The Valar, or at least the few of them that so far had remained untouched by the whole Mandos Debacle, had an emergency meeting in the Máhanáxar. Nienna was sleeping off her high, Yavanna and Aulë were answering the call of nature somewhere in the woods, and Námo, Irmo, Vairë and Estë were excused for the obvious reasons.

Manwë and Varda were there, as were Oromë, Tulkas, and their spouses Nessa and Vana. Better-late-than-never Ulmo arrived halfway the meeting; just in time to hear the best of it with other words…

"I don't see why Oromë and I can't do it, really."

"Leave me out of this, Tulkas."

"Ah come on, it'd be hilarious!"

"That's exactly why you're not getting to do it."

"You're such a party pooper sometimes."

"I would do it, but I'm not really qualified, now am I? I mean, flowers and dead people don't show much resemblance, usually…"

"Ever been to Minas Morgul in the Third Age?"

"Don't speak me of those glow-in-the-dark abominations!"

"Ladies, try to stay on topic, please!"

Ulmo coughed, but no one took notice of his arrival.

"If I could I would do it, but you all know I can't leave my husband alone for longer than a day."

"Varda!"

"Oh shut up, you know it's true."

"I can very well take care of myself!"

"Manwë, you're a walking disaster when I'm not around. Or do I have to remind you of the incident with the flaming…"

"That's private!"

"Then don't insinuate that…"

Ulmo coughed again, louder this time. When again no one responded, he decided to raise his voice.

"MANWË SULIMO!"

Ulmo could be very loud when he wanted to. All the arguments in the Máhanáxar fell silent… They all stared at the new arrival, not quite knowing what to say or do. Eventually Tulkas grinned and waved.

"Hi Ulmo, good to see you! Come to join the party?"

The Lord of the Seas didn't waste time with pleasantries. He frowned and asked,

"If you're all here, and the others are all otherwise excused, who is tending to the Halls at the moment?"

They all remained silent, questioningly looking at each other. Finally Manwë answered hesitatingly,

"Err… no one?"

"I thought so. Is a week enough to fight out who's to do it?"

"A… a week? What…"

"A week it is. Make sure you have a replacement ready in seven days, because I'm not saving your ass a second time!"

In a huge wave of summoned water, Ulmo disappeared, splashing all the others –especially the Elder King- completely wet. From under his drenched tresses Manwë moaned.

"Why does he always do that?"

* * *

  
And so the control of Mandos was passed on to Ulmo. The Lord of the Seas hated being on land, and he hated being indoors even more, but… well, the Halls needed tending to, and he was too practical to make a fuss about it.

As he hadn't really kept track of the whole issue, he didn't know of what had happened to the halls so far and had expected to find them as usual, large, dark, and mostly empty. Instead however he was faced with an almost-impenetrable jungle. Yavanna's seeds had clearly thriven and prospered, and now the once so orderly halls were covered in thick vegetation of all kinds. The reactions of the fëar were mixed; some happily roamed in the trees, while others wailingly tried to free themselves from the tangled foliage. No trace was left of the solemn peace and quiet that used to dominate the realm of Mandos…

Ulmo shook his head to himself and silently wondered what Eru thought about this fiasco. There was no way that he could properly run this place while it was filled with plants, but there was no way that he could get them all out at once either… Maybe if the fëar helped? Yavanna should have cleaned up her own mess… He paced through the vegetation, not realizing how high the humidity was becoming in every room he passed. Drenching Manwë was one thing, but the water-summoning trick tended to get a little out of control whenever he got worked up about something. Ulmo didn't know this. Most of the time he didn't get worked up about things in the first place, not to mention that usually he was surrounded by water and thus didn't need to summon any. He didn't notice it happening either, because he was deep in thought about how to solve the Mandos-problem... yet noticed or not, soon the humidity rose to the point where misty wet clouds hung in the halls and the soil was a mess of mud and drowning plants… And while the Valar argued and Ulmo paced, the jungle of Mandos turned more and more into a swamp…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: feedback is AWESOME, and much appreciated.
> 
> Then: Bad title pun, I know. And poor fëar... I wish I could say things will get better soon (no I don't) but...it's only going to get worse, and worse, and worse. At least for now. xD


	8. Finding Námo Part III: Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth wonders about what exactly constitutes a "lunch date", the Fëanorians want life to take the lemons back, and Galadriel will most certainly NOT let down her hair. Brace yourselves!

Maira-Meoi led Irmo on through the metal forest, avoiding the numerous shiny webs that decorated the surroundings with utterly cat-like grace… until they reached another clearing. There, in a magnificent lacework of silvery metal threads, hung Morgoth. The Fallen Vala was entangled in the webbing and appeared to be as chained as he had been at the pie-table. Irmo's eyes widened and he looked carefully at Maira-Meoi. The cat-maia sat on the ground with his tail wrapped around him, and was busy washing himself in a most cat-like manner. He didn't give any sign of recognizing his "master".

"Oh, hello there. Have we met before?"

Morgoth politely inquired. Irmo blinked a few times before answering,

"Perhaps on a pie-party?"

"A pie-party, you say? I don't remember meeting you on one… but then, it's been a while since I last frequented any."

So this version of Morgoth and the one in the pie-room weren't connected? Odd. Irmo curiously inquired,

"What happened to you?"

Morgoth wriggled a bit in the web.

"Oh, you mean this interesting predicament? Well, I was invited to a lunch date, but it seems to me that I'm the lunch rather than the date."

It seemed to the Vala of Dreams that Morgoth was rather relaxed with the prospect of being eaten. If it were him in that web, he sure wouldn't take it that calmly…

"You… You don't mind that?"

"Ah, to eat and to be eaten, that's the way things go, isn't it? Speaking of which, where are you going?"

"I'm looking for my brother Námo…"

Morgoth pensively nodded.

"You've made it surprisingly far then… Usually the silmarils are excellent gate-keepers."

"Maira-Meoi helped me."

"Well, in that case his name is most suitable. A most admirable cat he must be."

Irmo couldn't help but agree, and patted the cat-maia over the head. He had half expected him to pull away and say something indignant… but instead, the cat-version of Sauron stroked his head against Irmo's leg and purred happily. The Vala of Dreams scratched the cat-maia behind his ears, making him purr even louder, and internally wondered how it was possible that he had ever doubted his brother's imagination.

"Oooh…" *purr purr* "That's so nice…" *purr* "mmmh…" *purrrrr* "Oh yes… right there…"

It seemed that Maira-Meoi really enjoyed getting scratched and patted… Irmo chuckled and indulged the cat-maia a bit. The poor thing probably didn't get much attention… Eventually the happily purring cat-maia dozed off a bit, and Irmo pointed his attention to Morgoth again.

"Could you perhaps tell me where I can find my brother?"

Morgoth nodded.

"He doesn't want to be found, he has hidden himself. You'll find him in the Hidden City, among all the other things that are hidden from most of us."

Again a reference to Gondolin… That had to mean something, right?

"But where can I find the Hidden City?"

"It's called "hidden" for a reason. I am not able to find it, and neither is that cat of yours. Only those who can see what is hidden can find it."

Irmo was despairing a little. Seeing what was hidden? Sauron had taken the form of a giant eye once, if even he couldn't "see what was hidden", then who could? Maira-Meoi, who had been napping a little, suddenly looked up as if he knew Irmo had thought about him. He sleepily announced,

"You need a clairvoyant, I think. Can you pat me again? I liked that…"

A clairvoyant? Irmo had a bit of a revelation. Things that were hidden from most of us… of course, Morgoth meant the future! It was a reference to Námo's visions! He himself didn't possess foresight in any way, and apparently neither did the two dark lords… but he would still need a guide if he wanted to find this Hidden City. Where was Maeglin when you needed him? He absentmindedly patted Maira-Meoi again, and looked questioningly at Morgoth. The chained Vala sighed.

"You'll have the best chance of finding someone who can help you if you follow that road over there. But be warned… danger lurks, and not everything is always what it seems."

Once again, Morgoth gave him advice that sounded surprisingly sane and useful. Irmo roused the Maia-Cat from his pleasant slumber, and together they went in the direction that Morgoth had pointed them. They had just taken a few steps, when suddenly the forest was gone, and Irmo stood alone on a long straight road that went on for as far as the Vala could tell, and Maira-Meoi was nowhere to be seen… The road led through a desert of ash and black stone under a darkly clouded sky, and Irmo only had to smell the air to know where he was. He did wonder how he was going to find a clairvoyant in Mordor, of all places…

* * *

  
He had followed the road, and to him it seemed as if he had walked for days already. He was a Vala, and Valar didn't feel physical exhaustion, but the endless and rarely changing landscape of ashy plains and dark mountains was starting to wear him down. Should anything still be standing in this mind-version of Mordor then he should have seen it by now, no? Wasn't Barad-Dûr the highest building of Middle Earth? If it existed here, he should be able to see it, but there was nothing in front or behind him except for more ash and rocks. Irmo had only just thought that, when suddenly the road ended and he was standing at the foot of the humongous tower. The building had seemingly appeared out of thin air… Odd as it was, this still was a mindscape, and the Vala of Dreams wasn't one to complain when his wishes got fulfilled. He tried to see if he could get into the infamous stronghold…

The place seemed to be completely deserted; not a single Orc roamed about, the forges where they crafted their weapons were dark, not one torch was burning, and the whole complex was abandoned and desolate. It got darker the closer he came to the massive entrance gates of the main tower… Irmo felt threatened simply by the enormity of the structure. There was no one there, and still it felt as if he was walking unarmed and all by himself towards an enemy that literally towered over him…

* * *

  
Being inside Barad-Dûr was like being in the bowels of a giant, black beast. The wind that blew vile fumes and ash over the plains howled alongside the building, and the grunting and creaking of the structure made Irmo think of digestive noises. Thinking that, the Vala of Dreams felt shivers run over his back. He wasn't scared, but… well, the idea of being eaten never failed to make him uncomfortable. To distract his mind he concentrated on his surroundings.

Very remarkable about the whole place was its emptiness. The whole of Barad-Dûr was empty, devoid of both life and furniture. In a way it was almost creepier than if the tower would have been furnished for its inhabitants to return any moment. The lack of anything to fill the dark rooms or decorate the even darker corridors with only added to the sense of desolation that hung over the place…

After many stairs, Irmo at long last reached the top chamber. It was as empty as every other room… apart from one item that prominently lay in the very center of the place: a shimmering dark globe of unidentifiable material. A Palantir. Like a big, glittering gem it sat there, inviting the Vala to pick it up and look in it. Since it was literally the only thing of interest in the entire tower, Irmo suspected that he should examine it from close by. Picking up the ball, he focused his mind and looked in it…

In the Palantir he saw a tower that he knew rather well: Orthanc, the tower of Isengard. Its surroundings seemed to be restored to their pre-Ring-War glory, but nevertheless the tower was under attack. Curious devices of war, that Irmo didn't immediately see the function of but which undoubtedly could cause a lot of damage, surrounded it… As he focused and pulled the image closer, he got to see a rather peculiar sight. On some kind of platform stood an elf that Irmo recognized… It was Fëanor Curufinwë. The Vala had just "zoomed in" on the curious image, when the infamous Noldo looked up at the tower and loudly spoke.

"Galadriel, Galadriel, let down your hair!"

Somehow the phrase struck Irmo as bizarre. Then, in the only window in Orthanc a blonde head appeared that shrilly yelled back.

"Never! Leave me alone for Eru's sake!"

Fëanor answered.

"Very well then! We'll make you change your mind one day! Fire away!"

And Irmo got to see how the sons of Fëanor showed themselves and started to load the strange machines with… fruit? A lemon exploded with a fiery blast against the walls of Orthanc, and many more followed. That definitely wasn't normal fruit… Irmo wondered why on Arda he was watching this bizarre show. His poor brother's mind was a complete mess, and he was watching how doomed Noldor fired exploding fruitage at a tower, for the sake of hair… Yet in all their nonsensicality, Irmo knew that the images in the Palantir must hold a message of some sort. There had been too much coincidence so far; Morgoth pointing him in the right direction twice already, Maira-Meoi helping him get past the silmarils, this whole tower acting like a giant arrow to point his attention to the Palantir… it was almost as if despite his claims of not wanting to be found, Námo had left a trail of clues so that he could be tracked. If that was the case… then what was the clue in the seeing stone? Irmo watched how the "fight" continued, and suddenly it hit him. Galadriel was a seer, a clairvoyant. If he could somehow reach her, contact her… then perhaps she could point him to the Hidden City!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Namo's sick mind presents: Rapunzel, starring Galadriel! I couldn't help it. Also:
> 
> "When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade. Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! I don't want your damn lemons, what the hell am I supposed to do with these? Demand to see life's manager! Make life rue the day it thought it could give Fëanor Curufinwë lemons! Do you know who I am? I'm the man who's gonna burn your (choose: house/boats/front yard...) down! With the lemons! I'm gonna invent a combustible lemon that burns your house down!"
> 
> (Kudos to everyone who gets this reference...)
> 
> And Morgoth is an unexpected source of wisdom... again. Namo's mind is a seriously weird place...
> 
> Please give me some feedback, I love to know what you think!


	9. The Pursuit Of Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Tulkas has the worst idea ever, and Oromë involuntarily starts the fight...

On Taniquetil a week had gone by, and Manwë and Varda were having a serious conversation.

"Dear, are you absolutely certain that there is no one else who…"

"Who else is there? You know we have no choice!"

"What about Oromë?"

"He has his own responsibilities, you know that."

"And what about asking Ulmo to stay a little longer?"

"I don't want trouble with him. You know what he does when he's pissed at us. Or don't you remember what happened when you accidentally insulted him during a meeting?"

"Oh, right. The flooding incident. The Maiar still talk about that, by the way. It has taken somewhat mythical proportions. Apparently it took them weeks to get everything dry." Varda shook her head.

"Weeks would be a positive estimation, after a month there was still water leaking from the walls. I want to avoid disasters like that one from ever happening again, so there is no way we can ask Ulmo to extend his stay in Mandos. We'll just have to hope and pray to Illuvatar that He may send Tulkas some guidance until Namo is better or someone else can take over."

"Ah well, it's not as if he can mess it up much more than it already is, right?"

Manwë tried to be cheerfully hopeful, but his somewhat-smile faltered when he saw Varda's doomy look.

"Never underestimate the power of a seriously bored Tulkas, my dear…"

* * *

  
In Mandos, Oromë and Tulkas were plowing through swampy vegetation and mud that almost reached their knees at some points. Yavanna's magical plants had happily adjusted to the new climate, the fëar… not so much. Everywhere they looked they saw distraught, confused, and slightly hysterical dead roaming the place…

"I don't understand why they're all so upset. I mean, it's not as if they feel much of it anyway, right?"

Oromë sighed at his friend.

"It's confusing to them. It's too much like the living world, and yet it isn't like it at all. Because they can't feel and sense as much as they could while alive, being in surroundings like this is very debilitating. We should try to get rid of this mess as soon as possible."

"Oh. I see."

The conditions of Mandos were such that the fëar usually didn't feel hunger, exhaustion, pain, or other things intrinsically connected to having a physical form. It was possible for them to feel above-mentioned things though, if the Lord of the Halls wished so; the fëar all "seemed" corporeal when in the Halls, and the one in charge of them could limit or extend the range of sensations that their illusionary body could experience. Adjusting the conditions of the fëar was a feature of Námo's position that all the replacing Valar had neatly stayed away from so far, as it had to do with the most basic functioning of Mandos. They had enough trouble on their hands without causing revolts among the dead too.

Tulkas however thought that instead of restoring the halls to their boring, uniform blackness, it would be better to simply extend what the fëar could perceive, to reduce their confusion. A simple thought was all it took… Oromë always made things needlessly complicated, the Vala of War thought.

* * *

  
"I can't believe you did that."

"You said they were confused because they didn't feel enough!"

Oromë sat with his hands in his hair. Why, oh why had he said yes when Manwë asked if he would accompany Tulkas? Right, because Tulkas was his best friend and he always accompanied him, no matter how much trouble the Vala of War got them in. He sighed deeply and overlooked the situation. The fëar weren't just deeply confused anymore; they were also hungry, wet, cold, and probably plotting a revolution. The Great Hunter looked at his friend, who sat sideways on Námo's throne, wiggling his legs and ticking a rhythm on the marble, and wondered if things would be better if he had control of the halls. It was useless hypothesizing, because he had his own tasks in the forests of Aman, and a whole bunch of followers in need of direction, so he couldn't take on the extra responsibility. And, darn Eru, Tulkas would have found a way to cause mayhem anyway.

"They are going to riot if you continue this, Tulkas. They're dead, they shouldn't feel hunger and discomfort anymore. Not to mention that we can hardly feed them."

"There is just no way to please these people, is there? It's no surprise that Námo went crazy, if the dead are always this peeved."

"Tulkas…"

The Vala of War grinned.

"No worries, Oromë. I have this completely under control. You'll see, within a few moments they won't be thinking about food anymore."

The Great Hunter bit his lip and prayed to Illuvatar that this might end well…

* * *

  
Tulkas was nothing if not intrepid, and the features of Námo's position had opened a world of possibilities for him. When he concentrated he could mentally overview the whole of the Halls –which immediately explained why Námo didn't use a map- and move at will between the different chambers. Also, he could move the fëar if he wanted to. To the Vala of War, it was like playing a non-boring board game… He gathered the fëar in different groups according to who they were, where they came from, and how they had died… and then he stated cheerfully.

"I'll be right back!"

And before Oromë could object he had disappeared.

Tulkas didn't have a lot in common with the stoic and perpetually serious Námo… except for one thing. Just like the Doomsman, Tulkas never forgot anything. He kept grudges, for ages and ages if necessary. That was why he had always considered the whole "let go of your resentment and forgive" policy of Mandos a little counterproductive. It was no wonder that fëar were stuck in the Halls for ages, if they were supposed to forgive people who shouldn't be forgiven, for actions that were in every way unpardonable. Personally he believed that they would all be ready to be re-embodied much sooner if they simply got restitution in some way for the harm done to them. With that idea in mind, he visited the groups of confused fëar, and held for each a speech that was both surprisingly loquacious and strangely demagogic for the likes of him… In any case it had a rather impressive effect on the distraught elven fëar. Then he reappeared in front of Oromë.

"All done!"

"What did you do, Tulkas?"

"Distract them from their hunger and discomfort. Now, could you perhaps blow your horn?"

Oromë raised an eyebrow at his friend.

"What. Did. You. Do?"

"Ah come on, just blow your horn. You'll understand."

"Not before you tell me what will happen."

"As I said, I have distracted them all. They won't revolt, at least, not against us. Now blow your horn!"

Not knowing what else to do, Oromë blew his horn. The bright sound of Valaroma echoed through the halls, and it hadn't died away or other sounds filled the marble chambers... Worryingly battle-cry-like sounds. The Great Hunter worriedly exclaimed.

"Tulkas!"

"Divide and conquer, my friend. Now all we have to do is sit back and enjoy the show!"

The Vala of War shared his thoughts with his friend, and Oromë closed his eyes in horror. He didn't easily feel sorry for people, especially not for doomed people who had it coming… but this situation justified it. Poor them…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title of this chapter was: "In Which Tulkas Has The Worst Idea Ever." I trust you can see why. If you think the fëar had it tough up to now, you've seen nothing yet... Immature!Tulkas is without a doubt the worst thing that ever happened to the Halls of Mandos!
> 
> In the next chapter there will be a lot of Fëanor (and with a lot I mean A LOT. As in, MORE THAN ANYONE NEEDS TO SEE, EVER.) Just warning you guys...


	10. Finding Námo Part IV: Magical Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is far too much of Fëanor for anyone's mental health, and we get to see exactly how fucked up Námo's mind really is...

Irmo sat on the floor of Námo's illusory Barad-Dûr and wondered how he was supposed to get to Isengard from there, with nothing but a Palantir at his disposal. In the seeing stone, the fight was still going on, as the Fëanorians apparently had an infinite amount of combustible fruit in their possession to load their war-machines with. Irmo sighed and stared at the going-ons. If only he could reach Galadriel…

Suddenly the image in the ball changed, and the Vala of Dreams got to see exactly the She-Elf he had wanted to reach. Of course, there was a Palantir in Orthanc as well! That he hadn't thought of that before!

"Who are you, and why are you watching me?"

The elleth's voice sounded tired and weary.

"I am Irmo."

His name didn't seem to stir recognition.

"Do you want my hair as well? Because I can tell you now, you're not going to get it."

"No, no, I have no interest in your hair. I just want to reach the Hidden City, and someone told me you could guide me."

"I can't get out here, and I haven't had a decent night of sleep in ages. I can't help you, you'll have to find someone else."

"You… you don't sleep?"

"Have you ever tried to sleep in a tower under attack? The explosions echo, and reverberate, and resonate… It's horrible. I haven't slept since they started!"

"And you can't get out?"

"The tower is surrounded, in case you hadn't noticed. I can hardly open a window here."

Irmo wondered what he could do… He was a Fëanturi, a master of spirits, specialized in dreams and hallucinations… he should be able to do something, no? Up to now he hadn't done anything but stroll around in the mind of his brother… but Námo's mind was in essence a mind like any other, he should be able to manipulate the surroundings…

"If I help you with your Fëanorian problem… will you lead me to the Hidden City?"

"If you could do that, I would lead you anywhere, Mr. Irmo."

That he didn't need to hear twice. The Vala of Dreams focused on the surroundings, and tried to see through the illusion that Námo's mind had created. He could feel how the environment resisted against his efforts, but didn't give up.

"This might feel a little strange, Miss Galadriel."

He bent and warped the mindspace like an elastic thread, and the whole area began to look distorted… Standing in Barad-Dûr, Irmo could already hear the sounds of the Fëanorian siege of Orthanc as if he was there, and the furniture of the wizard's tower vaguely shimmered around him. The two towers were temporarily merging together, and the closer he brought them, the more Námo's mind tried to fight him off. He bit his teeth and held on… until everything melded together, and he looked in the confused and surprised eyes of Galadriel, who stood in front of him surrounded by a pool of golden locks. For a moment, the two places were one, Barad-Dûr and Orthanc at the same time… The next moment the connection broke, causing them to fall on the floor from the force of the backlash. The whole tower seemed to wobble… When at last the surroundings had stabilized, Irmo crawled up. Galadriel looked at him with big eyes.

"It's… it's gone!"

And indeed, the echoing ruckus of exploding fruit and yelled obscenities was simply… gone. Irmo was standing in Orthanc… and if everything was good, the Fëanorians were at that moment standing at the foot of the abandoned Barad-Dûr. The she-elf, whose shiny golden tresses trailed over the floor, seemed elated… and exhausted. Despite the healthy luster of her extremely long hair she was emaciated, and her eyes lay deep in her face. It was obvious that she indeed hadn't slept in a long while…

"Well, Miss Galadriel, I helped you."

She gratefully smiled at him.

"You did… thank you so much, Mr. Irmo…"

"So… the Hidden City?"

Galadriel nodded.

"I'll show you. I can't come with you, but I'll bring you there."

"But… how will you…?"

"Just let me show you."

Galadriel pushed a heap of hair out of the way, led him to a large bowl with a mirroring surface, and filled it with water from a small recipient.

"When you look in it…" She yawned. "So, as I said, when you look in it you'll see…" Another yawn interrupted her. She smiled embarrassedly. "I'm sorry. Just… Just look in it, that's all. You'll see."

Irmo shook his head.

"Miss Galadriel, before I do so, let me help you to bed. You seem exhausted."

The elleth sighed.

"I don't think I even recall how to sleep, it's been that long…"

Irmo wasn't the Vala of Dreams for nothing, and something told him that it was important that Námo's version of Galadriel got to have a good night rest. He amiably smiled.

"I am sure you'll remember as soon as you lie down."

And so he brought her to her bedroom, made sure she didn't trip over her own hair, and tucked her in.

"Good night, Miss Galadriel."

She sent him a sleepy smile.

"Thank you again, Mr Irmo… You're very nice…"

"It's my pleasure."

Galadriel didn't answer anymore; she was already asleep. Irmo shook his head again and carefully avoided the golden hair that was spread over the floor, as he made his way back to the room with the mirror. His brother truly had a strange mind…

Standing in front of the mirror bowl, Irmo took a deep breath… and looked in it. For a moment, he just saw his own reflection… but the next moment, just as he had breathed out in slight disappointment, the water in the bowl seemed to grab him by the shoulders and simply pulled him in! He didn't even have the time to scream, and it was a good thing that he couldn't die because he would have surely drowned otherwise… As he breathed in water, everything went black…

* * *

  
Irmo slowly regained consciousness. He was lying under water, on solid stone. Where was he? That darn mirror had just grabbed him and then… well, he still didn't quite know what it had done then. Fact was; he wasn't in Orthanc anymore. He could see the surface of the water from where he lay, and studied it a little, while his mind recovered from the strange experience. At long last the Vala remembered what he had come to do, and he raised his head up. It was dark, and he didn't really recognize the surroundings, only that he was laying in some type of stone basin. His robes were drenched and heavy, and it took him quite a bit of effort to get out of the water. Only when he finally had gotten out, dripping wet but well, he realized where he was… He was sitting on the edge of Ecthelion's famous fountain, in the Hidden City of Gondolin.

Irmo looked around. He was in Gondolin, but… the Hidden City seemed distorted, twisted almost. Instead of shiny white stone, the buildings he could see where made of the black marble that also made up the Halls of Waiting, and the sky was dark and cloudy like the sky of Mordor. There also didn't seem to be anyone there, which gave him almost as much the creeps as the abandoned tower of Sauron had…

The Vala of Dreams wrung out his robes, and went on his way. As soon as he had left the House of the Fountain and its courtyard, he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. It still looked like the streets of Gondolin, but at the same time it couldn't be more different. In the distance he saw what was supposed to be King Turgon's palace, but here it appeared more as a mansion for Morgoth than as the glorious residence he had once known. Large cylindrical pipes decorated the roof and sent dark fumes into the sky, and the whole complex seemed humongous and threatening, like a gigantic war-machine, or an enormous sleeping fell beast. Valar usually didn't feel fear, but the chills that ran down Irmo's spine when he looked at it came pretty close…

He was all alone in the dark street, in the shadow of the eerie palace, and for the first time since he had started his quest the Vala of Dreams felt despair creep up on him. How would he find his brother here? And in what state would he find him, if this was what the innards of his mind looked like? He walked on, and noticed that the dark streets became lit. Not by sunlight or fire, but by strangely shining artefacts that hung from the walls of the houses and shops. Some flickered in different colours, some burned so bright that he couldn't look straight at them, and others formed letters in glowing red or blue, stating things in languages he didn't understand, using unfamiliar alphabets. It could have been a spectacular sight, but now the overabundance of unexplainable glowing and flashing things only made him nauseous. The ground below his feet wasn't made of cobblestones anymore, but of some kind of black molten rock, adorned with strange white stripes… What was this?

As Irmo stood confused in the middle of the brightly lit nightmare, he noticed other people on the street. They wore bizarre cylindrical hats that reminded him of the chimneys on the palace, and covered their faces in dark black cloaks. Something told him that they shouldn't see him, but he was hardly inconspicuous in his heavy wet robes… The odd people approached at a solemn but unremitting pace, seemingly knowing that he couldn't escape, and the Vala's eyes darted over the glimmering and flickering signs as if they held a solution. Strangely enough, they did. Amidst the mass of characters and languages he couldn't place, he saw a large pink light-sign stating in Quenya: "The Magic Mirror, Watch Without Being Seen!". Grabbing his robes with both hands, Irmo hurried to the building that held the sign. The door opened for him, and closed right after he entered, keeping the cloaked people outside. With a sigh of relief Irmo leaned against the door and relaxed. As the panic that had struck him faded, he took notice of where he was.

In front of him lay brightly lit corridor, with lush red carpet covering the floor, purple walls, and numbered doors on either side that went on as far as he could see… As Irmo progressed through the corridor, he saw that next to each door hung a sign stating either "Free" or "Occupied", and a note of what he suspected could be found behind it. Curiously, he read the notes.

"Glorfindel's Horses."

"Forge Fire."

"Waterfall."

"Family Party."

"The Girdle Of Melian."

Perhaps this place was some kind of hub, and the doors led to different locations… After reading a couple of the cryptic descriptions, Irmo decided to see what was behind the door that stated, "Waterfall". He opened it, but didn't immediately find himself transported anywhere. Instead he saw a small room, a closet almost, with an inviting armchair in it. Curious, Irmo closed the door, pressed the "occupied" button that sat next to it, and sat down.

His backside hadn't hit the chair yet, or the setting changed. Sitting in the comfortable cushions, Irmo found himself looking at… a small waterfall. But that wasn't all there was to see. On a stone under the waterfall stood a young, muscled ellon. Irmo could only see the elf's back, but it was more than obvious that he was completely naked, and busy washing himself. The Vala of Dreams felt the blood rise to his cheeks. He had seen dreams like this more than once before, but… this was his brother's mind! He should not be watching this! He shouldn't even be aware that his brother thought about things like this! Yet he stayed seated, and the unknown elf continued to wash himself, large yet elegant hands sensually sliding over well-defined muscles. He had the strong build of someone who is used to physical labour, but the regal posture of a king. Droplets of water lay like gems on his fair skin, and his damp black tresses looked incredibly luscious as he shook the water from them... Irmo felt more flustered than ever. He wanted to know who this elf was, but at the same time he didn't want him to turn around. Him turning around would mean… Right that moment the elf turned, and Irmo got to see what exactly it meant. It meant Fëanor Curufinwë. The Vala got up with a shock, and in a flash he was back in the little room. With bright red cheeks he left it, trying to ban the image from his brain. Talent and impulsivity clearly weren't the only things nature had gifted that Noldo with…

The Vala of Dreams felt ashamed for watching, but the shame wasn't enough to keep him away from the other doors. Morbid curiosity steered him towards the door marked "The Girdle of Melian". His whole mind was screaming not to go there, but still he opened the door, set it on Occupied, and sat down. Three seconds later he regretted the decision… The seat gave him full vision of a bedroom and its occupants. Naked and bound on hands and feet was Elu Thingol, and on his back sat the Maia Melian, armed with a broad belt.

"You are a bad elf, Thingol!"

The belt clapped on the ellon's butt cheeks, and he screamed it out… Irmo couldn't tell whether it was in pain or in pleasure.

"You know what happens to bad elves, don't you?"

Again the belt hit the ellon's ass, but this time Melian's hand also reached lower, stimulating his swollen lid and making him moan while she hit him again. Irmo was frozen in his seat. While the elf and Maia continued their game of pain and pleasure, the Vala of Dream's mind was racing. Melian worked for his wife. He still encountered her often. How could he ever, ever look her in the face again after seeing this?!

When he finally managed to get out of the chair, he felt terrible. He probably wouldn't be able to ever look at Melian (or her belt) in the same way again… Not to mention his brother! Irmo tried to get himself together. So his brother's mind had a corner devoted to slightly perverted voyeurism, and he had –of course- managed to accidentally get into it. If Námo ever found out about this, he would never talk to him again…

Any other Vala would have taken a run for the door, but not Irmo. His curiosity had always been his big weak spot, and the descriptions on the doors made him impossibly intrigued. Even knowing that they probably all held sexual fantasies of Námo, he couldn't resist going further into the corridor. He had already seen more than was good for him; one more peek wouldn't hurt, right? He wisely skipped "Glorfindel's Horses", and "Family Party", as they both made him think of things he really had no taste for, avoided "Forge Fire", "Heat Wave In Tirion" and other -surprisingly numerous- doors that referred somehow to naked kinslayers, and eventually ended up in front of a door stating "Sword". One peek, right? As he sat down, Irmo vainly wondered why his curiosity always got the better of him. It wasn't as if he didn't see enough sex in the dreams of other people… When he at last got out of the seat, he felt dirty and degenerate, and had seen enough of Fëanor's crown jewels to last him multiple lifetimes. He leaned against the door he had just exited and took a deep breath. His brother was somewhere in this creepy, nightmarish version of Gondolin… He had to find him, and not embarrass himself by peeking at the older Vala's sexual fantasies.

Irmo was wondering if the hat-wearing people would still be guarding the street, and if so, how he could get out of this place… when he suddenly heard a familiar sound.

"Meow."

He turned, just in time to see a furry black tail disappear around a corner.

"Maira-Meoi?"

Irmo quickly ran in the direction of the mewing sound, just in time to see the cat-maia enter one of the numbered doors. Knowing that they had no other exit, Irmo pulled open the door, expecting to see Maira-Meoi in the seat… no such thing happened however. He had only just opened the door when he got sucked inside, in a way very similar to Galadriel's Mirror. Wasn't this place called "The Magic Mirror"? That figured, Irmo thought right before everything went black again… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's Apologies)
> 
> This plot twist is brought you by Agnes Riemann, a good friend who sometimes messes with my documents and adds sex scenes wherever she can. For the sake of the rating (and Namo's privacy, maybe?) I cut out her overly descriptive descriptions of GlorfindelxAsfaloth and Fëanor's tools in action. I apologize to all the lovers of smut for this censoring. She doesn't have a profile here, or I would have added her as a co-author. 
> 
> Fëanor does have a very nice... sword, that needs occasional... cleaning, if you know what I mean... xD Irmo is most likely scarred forever… (There are some things even Valar don't want to know about their siblings, nor about their subjects. Seriously.)
> 
> So, back to serious business here (for as far as anything is serious in this story...): Namo's inner mind is full of anachronisms (asphalt roads, neon signs, peep shows, factories, victorian hats...) because he has -as stated before- a non-linear perception of time. Normal temporal reality is fundamentally different from his.
> 
> I must also point out that every character Irmo encounters is a part of his brother's mind. This is somewhat important to see what is going on. (It'll get clearer later on...)


	11. When Few Stood Against Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immature!Tulkas is the very worst thing that ever happened to the Halls of Mandos, Oromë risks getting a permanent handprint in his face from all the facepalming he's doing, and the kinslayers all rue the day they picked up a sword...

"Maedhros, please, I can't… I c-can't…"  
  
Amrod fell on his knees in the mud, tears in his eyes. The oldest Fëanorian pulled him up.  
  
"We can't wait, Amrod. They're coming! As long as we can stay ahead of them, we'll be safe."  
  
"I d-don't want to run anymore… P-Please…"  
  
Maedhros looked at his younger brother and felt his chest constrict. Mud, blood and tears streaked the younger elf's face, and his eyes pleaded desperately for mercy. Mercy they wouldn't get, that much Maedhros knew. Their injuries healed immediately, but their pain remained, and no matter how exhausted they got they could sleep nor die. It hadn't always been like that, but it seemed that Námo had at long last given the "care" of them to another, more "suitable" person… They should have seen it coming when the once so calm Halls had started transforming into the swamp they were now…  
  
Tulkas had gathered them all together and warned them that they would be in for a fight. That was all the explanation they had gotten, before the sound of Valaroma echoed through the marble, and the angry cries of other fëar started edging in their direction. Maedhros wasn't sure how he had known, but instinctively he had grabbed the twins by the arm and ran into the only corridor from which no people where approaching. Celegorm had followed soon, but Caranthir, Curufin and their father had stayed behind. Whether that was because of shock or determination to fight he didn't know. All he knew was, that if they were up against what he thought they were up, there was no way they could win the fight…  
  
The Halls were a winding complex of interconnected rooms and corridors, and eventually they had run into a mob or angry Teleri. By then they had already lost track of Celegorm. They had fought, barehanded or with sticks they had broken off from nearby trees, but it was three against at least thirty, a losing battle. Maedhros knew torture very well, and he knew that being assaulted by thirty angry elves without being able to die or even pass out would be exactly that. In the fight they had gotten separated, and only he and Amrod had managed to get away. The desperate cries of their youngest brother still echoed in his ears... It was hard to remember that they were already dead. It was hard to remember anything really, with the scent of blood and decomposing plants thickly in their nostrils and the hopelessness of a never-ending battle in front of them. Maedhros pulled Amrod forward.  
  
"Don't give up. It's bad now, but if they get us it'll be worse."  
  
And they ran again, or at least tried, for the mud was getting thicker and harder to move in with every meter…  
  


* * *

  
They stood back to back. It had had to come far for that, but there they were, father and son, at long last in the same camp.  
  
"Ada... We're going to die here, no?"  
  
With a surprisingly steady voice, Eöl answered,  
  
"Nonsense, Maeglin. We're already dead."  
  
The angry, muddied and vindictive looking fëar of Gondolin were inching in on them from every direction, yelling obscenities and dangerously swinging thick sticks… Maeglin's hand cramped around his own stick, as he pressed himself closer against his father's back. With a choked voice he whispered.  
  
"Ada… I'm sorry."  
  
"A little late for that now, isn't it son?" Eöl could feel his accursed son's fëa shiver under the bitter comment… and in a moment of unexpected clarity he then added. "I'm sorry too."  
  
That was the last thing they managed to say to each other, before the fight really began…  
  


* * *

  
Caranthir carried his brother through the vegetation. He hurt, his whole body ached and he knew that if he weren't dead already he'd be dying, but at least he wasn't as injured as Curufin. Somehow they had managed to stake him, and although there was no trace of the wound anymore other than the blood staining his tunic, he was in terrible pain.  
  
"P-Put me down…"  
  
"I won't leave you here. I didn't leave you in Doriath and I won't leave you here either."  
  
"W-We… b-both died in D-Doriath… brother…" Curufin cried. "P-Put me d-down, I'll hide."  
  
"You can't even stand anymore!"  
  
"P-please… I don't w-want them to g-get you again…"  
  
Caranthir knew that his brother had a point, they were hardly making progress through the swamp, and the voices of their aggressors were still far too close…  
  
"I don't want them to hurt you more, Curvo…"  
  
"I d-don't care anymore."  
  
Curufin's eyes held a frightening expression, empty despite the fact that he wasn't unconscious. And that was when Caranthir made his decision. He set his brother down in the mud, hidden between the roots of a tree.  
  
"Don't make a sound. If you go under water they won't see you."  
  
Curufin gave his brother a small semblance of a smile, hard to distinguish as they were all covered in blood and mud. He grasped his hand.  
  
"T-Take care, brother…"  
  
"You take care. Don't let them see you."  
  
"G-Go, t-they're coming…"  
  
And Caranthir ran, a lot faster now without the weight of his brother on his back… He turned back once, only to see how Curufin let himself sink in the mud, becoming invisible if you didn't know he was there… All he could do was hope that they wouldn't find him…  
  


* * *

  
The Maiar of Námo did as much as they could to help the targets of the "Retribution Battle" without going explicitly against the orders of Tulkas. They didn't understand how it could have come so far with their halls, and they understood even less how it was possible that Tulkas was cheerfully humming a tune while the fëar suffered immensely…. at least, a couple of them did. Didn't that darn Vala have a heart!? Tulkas had happily messed around with the fëar's conditions, and now only the fëar of his choice were subject to pain and injury. He probably didn't even realize himself what disaster he had caused, or what the extent of his changes exactly was… It placed an army of angry, resentful, and vindictive elves that couldn't die nor become incapacitated through pain against a weakened few that had to be "punished"… It was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, in the worst possible manner…  
  
Oromë tried to talk sense into his best friend, wondering whether it was cruelty or simply unthinking impulsivity that had caused the whole disaster. The Vala of War was his usual cheerful and immature self, and he didn't seem to comprehend how bad things were getting.  
  
"This is not some kind of game, Tulkas. Those fëar are real people!"  
  
"If they could dish it out, they can receive it as well, it's as simple as that."  
  
"This is purposeless fighting, and it has no end! You're torturing them!"  
  
"Ah Oromë, it's not all that bad. They're all dead after all, and as soon as every elf who holds a grudge has kicked them they'll have eternity to recover from it."  
  
"And you think this will just stop by itself? Tulkas, not everyone is as fair as you are! This won't stop!"  
  
"Why wouldn't it?"  
  
"Because your motivational speeches have awakened ages of festering hatred, that's why! If no one puts an end to this they'll torture them for all ages to come! You're the Vala of War, if anything you should know that!"  
  
Tulkas seemed to think about that, and frowned.  
  
"Well… I don't really know how to stop them now they've started… It was simpler to see how things worked before they were fighting. I simply expected it to die out like most battles do."  
  
Oromë facepalmed and sent a prayer to Eru, that He would send some kind of miracle to them. He didn't think he had ever before called out to their Father this often… It were days like this that he wondered why he was even friends with Tulkas.  
  
"Fights stop because the people who were fighting get killed."  
  
Tulkas looked embarrassed, and rightly so.  
  
"Right."  
  
Oromë exclaimed,  
  
"You have to stop them!"  
  
"It's not that simple!"  
  
Tulkas sighed. And here he had thought it was Oromë who always made things overly complicated. It was all really quite confusing… It had seemed so simple when the fëar were all calmly hanging around in one place, but the once so orderly oversight of the halls that he had mental access to, had turned into a complete mess. Foreseeing what was going to happen if he changed anything was hardly possible anymore… Oh, it was a right mess. Regaining his cheerful demeanour, Tulkas hummed a tune to it. The fighting parties were all dead, and Námo wouldn't stay away forever. In time the Doomsman would come back and solve all this, and in the meantime they'd just have to wait. No use in fussing about things they couldn't change anyway, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's Apologies)
> 
> Well, I promised you Fëanorian Drama, didn't I? And I did tell you that Immature!Tulkas is the very worst thing to ever happen to Mandos since its creation, no? xD I'm a cruel person... For good measure I also threw in Eöl and Maeglin, who are embittered yet back to back when it comes to it...
> 
> So, currently we have Fëanor and his six sons (Maglor is still wandering the coastline), and Eöl and Maeglin, versus everyone who has reason to hold a grudge against them. You can see where that goes wrong, no? And I know, elves aren't usually depicted as cruel and vengeful, but take this into account:
> 
> A) we're talking about spending years and years and years in the Halls of Mandos, struggling with the resentment they are supposed to let go. (And if that were easy, it wouldn't take them so long.)
> 
> B) We're talking confusion, discomfort, and mental distortion here; the fëar were already distraught by all that had been going on in Mandos (I imagine that as they have no real bodies, their "appearance" is in a way connected to the Halls, and thus the messing with the Halls also messed with them) and then on top of that Tulkas also played with the specifics of their perception... which made for some very mentally unbalanced fëar...
> 
> C) We have Tulkas, who may not seem like it, but who is very good at stirring trouble and inciting acts of (senseless?) violence, by means of public speaking. He's not exactly eloquent (Oromë inserts here *cough*Euphemism*cough*) but he's effective. Unfortunately.
> 
> D) They can't get doomed for kinslaying while performing technically lethal acts (like staking) on their targets, as they are already dead.
> 
> Hence the Battle of Mandos.
> 
> PLEASE REVIEW!


	12. Finding Námo Part V: It Ain’t Over ‘Till The Mad Lady Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic Singing occurs, all that is gold does not glitter, and Irmo makes some therapeutic progress at last. Could it be that we have found our Doomsman?

Irmo woke up standing on the streets of Námo’s hidden city, right in front of the heavy iron gates of the creepy palace. The message was clear, he was to go inside… He looked around for his cat-maia guide, but of course Maira-Meoi was nowhere to be found. Irmo sighed deeply, and looked up at the iron gates with a mix of apprehension and resolution. He had to find his brother, no matter what. Carefully he pushed against the gates, and when they –to his surprise- simply opened for him, he got inside…

The insides of Barad-Dûr were candyland in comparison to this, Irmo thought to himself. His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, which were decorated with large paintings. Every painting depicted a different person, none of which Irmo knew, and in every single picture the eyes of the person had been roughly carved out, as if someone had in anger planted a knife in the eyes of the paintings. Despite, or perhaps because of their lack of eyes, Irmo felt watched, stared at by the images… He began walking faster, hoping to get out of the gallery of eye-less portraits soon.  

At long last he reached a broad marble staircase. It shone bright white in the middle of the black surroundings, like a beacon of hope, and Irmo didn’t hesitate a moment to climb it. Simply setting feet on the glittering white stone already made him feel better. The stairs led to a heavy gold-coloured double door, decorated with intricate carvings. For a moment, Irmo just watched the carvings, beautiful flowers and birds that meandered over the golden wood… it was without a doubt one of the most beautiful pieces of woodwork he had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. Irmo sighed happily… and then his eye fell on a little imperfection in the pattern. Someone had roughly carved a few small words in the door, and the Vala suspected this person had done so with his nails, as the wood seemed sullied by blood in the letters. Ominously and threateningly, the tiny phrase stated,

“LOVE HER AND DESPAIR.”

Immediately, the warm and happy feeling Irmo had gotten when he set foot on the stairs dissipated, and it was with great apprehension that he pushed the doors open. They led him into a beautiful hall, with shiny golden tiles and richly decorated walls, brightened in warm hues of coloured light by enormous chandeliers of intricate glasswork. He had seen many beautiful things in his life, but this simply took his breath away… And at the end of the hall sat, in a luscious seat, one of the most beautiful creatures of Arda. She, who could in beauty rival with Varda Elentari and next to whom all the luxury of the halls faded… The daughter of Melian, Luthien Tinuviel. She wore robes decorated with gemstones, and on her brow stood an intricate circlet holding three doomed shiny jewels…

Irmo watched her open-mouthed. He had known Luthien, and he had seen her mythical beauty with his own eyes… but it appeared that in his mind Námo had given her an absolutely otherworldly glamour. She seemed to shine brighter than the silmarils that crowned her... As he stared, the unrealistically beautiful version of Luthien smiled… it was such an amazing sight that Irmo himself would have been brought to his knees had he not gotten that tiny warning right before opening the door. Love her and despair… Maira-Meoi’s voice echoed through his mind.

“Tricksy little silmarils, always trying to bring people off the right path.”

And then Morgoth’s voice,

“But be warned… danger lurks, and not everything is always what it seems…”

And so Irmo found the strength to raise his voice and ask,

“Lady Luthien, where is my brother Námo?”

The gorgeous elleth stood up from her seat, and spoke in a voice so enchanting that it made the Vala shiver,

“He is happy. Leave him be.”

Not everything is always what it seems… The words were all what kept the Vala of Dreams standing. This was not Luthien, he reminded himself. This was a creation of Námo’s mind, a dangerous creation, much like the silmarils he had encountered earlier.

“I need to speak to my brother, Lady Luthien.”

The she-elf melodiously laughed and spoke,

“You are interesting… I will have much enjoyment from you… Yes, you may see him, and stay. You must definitely stay.”

Irmo suddenly felt himself weaken, as if his strength was leaving him on the cadence of her glorious voice. He… he could not give into this!

“NO!”

He bound his remaining power in his voice, fighting against Luthien’s influence. This seemed to amuse her even more. Tinkling laughter echoed through the hall.

“No one says no to me, Irmo Lorien. Not even you.”

As she stood straight, she seemed to grow, her being surrounded by light and her eyes shining brighter than the stars of Elbereth. She was magnificent and terrible, atrocious in her unnatural beauty, and he had to shield his eyes from her radiance. With a blazing aura she floated off the ground… and sang.

Visions assaulted Irmo, and the hall disappeared. A thorough feeling of despair and misery fell over him, when before his eyes he saw things he didn’t understand but which filled him with dread. To the rhythm of her most beautiful song, the most horrible images pervaded his mind, images of despondent people succumbing to illnesses while crawling through narrow ditches flooded with mud, of machines that shot not fruit but metal at complete innocents, or devices that wiped out all life in whole areas in a flash of white light so bright that it burned away everything…

Irmo felt sick, and he realized he had fallen down under the stream of horrors that Luthien sang of. He had force himself to the limit to not give in to the urge that the song awakened in him, the urge to lay down his head and forget everything, to let go and never wake up again…

Crawling up again, he raised his voice and sang a song of his own. He sang of people who loved each other, despite all circumstances. He sang of a child being born, bringing the mother intense pain but also intense happiness. He sang of a seed slowly growing into a tree, on the ground littered with the carcasses of the fallen. His song was about all the small things that existed no matter what; small things that were part of nature and that would remain existent as long as there were people left… As he sang, he felt how he pushed back the deceptively beautiful power of Námo’s Luthien, and how he gained strength again… But then she continued her own song, and again it brought visions. Irmo believed they were indeed exactly that, images of times still to come... Knowing that, he didn’t find it hard to imagine that Námo had succumbed to madness under them.

Forests being burned down, starving people getting kicked in the gutter, children with flies on their staring eyes, cities with towers lit up like silmarils, but with a sky as black as Mordor above them and air so poisoned that the people can hardly breathe it still… Irmo almost felt like one of the people in those cities, grasping for breath in the intense light... He couldn’t win this, he realized. For every good thing he could sing about, there would be thousands of awful things in the future that Luthien could send him visions of… But if he gave up, both he and his brother would be lost to this personification of madness.

Barely awake anymore, Irmo collected his last power and answered to the anthem of destruction and despair that was Luthien’s song. He had to think out of the box for this one. The answer needed was not the answer expected…

And so he sang of Aman. He sang of all the Valar;, the impractical Manwë and his down-to-earth spouse Varda, the grumpy-yet-pragmatic Ulmo, the kind Nienna, the wise Vairë, the caring Estë, the mighty ingenious Aulë and his passionate wife Yavanna, the troublesome twosome that was Oromë and Tulkas, and their lovely partners Vana and Nessa… He even mentioned himself… yet most of all he sang of his brother.

He sang of the tears that Vairë had cried and of the sincere love in her words when she had revealed how ill he was… of how much the Valar all respected him, and of how they each in their own way cared about his wellbeing… of the beauty and peace that his reign brought to the Halls of Waiting… Irmo even sang of his own quest to find him, of all the obstacles he had conquered simply to reach him, and of how his love for him was the one thing that currently kept him standing.

The song, started as the weak plea of a losing man, now resounded through the hall in a glorious might of colours and images. Luthien seemed to shrink, and however her deceptively beautiful voice still tried to lure him back to the nightmares she described, Irmo was able to close his mind for her. He would win this; he would free his brother! The silmarils on Luthien’s brow were losing much of their brightly shining lustre, and along with them the whole of the hall lost its unnatural glamour. As the Vala of Dreams sang the last note of his song, Luthien no longer sang. She screamed, high and piercing, breaking the crystal chandeliers and multi-coloured lampshades with the sheer strength of her voice… it was the last breath of a dying creature. Moments later, Luthien had disappeared, and Irmo stood on his own in the now dark hall, surrounded by broken glass. He was terribly exhausted, but victorious. Suddenly, clapping resounded above his head. As he looked up, he saw that the chandeliers weren’t chandeliers at all… they were cages. In one of them sat Morgoth, who was enthusiastically applauding for him, for as far as his chains allowed him. In the other cage sat Námo. The Doomsman was curled up and didn’t seem too conscious anymore… Irmo brought the cage down to the floor, and broke open the metal bars, freeing his brother. When he held him in his arms, Námo attempted to focus his gaze, weakly whispering something.

“You c-came…”

Irmo smiled and caressed his brother’s head.

“Of course I came. I am your brother and I love you.”

He could feel how Námo slowly reclaimed his mind now he was out of the cage, how his conscious presence spread again through all the areas the Vala of Dreams had traversed, and many more… While cradling him, Irmo helped in the process. He borrowed strength to his brother, supported him and shielded him from pain, until the older Vala had regained enough of his mental faculties to actually understand what was going on. Hazily he looked at Irmo.

“H-How…”

“I came for you. You’re safe now, and I’ll take you home.”

“P-Please…”

Námo clung to his brother, and Irmo softly smiled, carrying him in his arms. The caged Morgoth send them a surprisingly happy smile, and remarked,

“If you’re looking for the exit, the backdoor is over there.”

And with a nod of his head he pointed them to an inconspicuous brown door on the left side of the hall. Irmo graciously bowed his head at him, and the fallen Vala politely returned the gesture. Odd as it was, Námo’s version of Morgoth was one of the most helpful and amusing creatures he had encountered on his travels... And of course there was also the disturbingly adorable cat version of Sauron to think of. On a whim Irmo said,

“Thank you! Send my best wishes to Maira-Meoi as well!”

And Morgoth laughed –which was a sight both baffling and somewhat alarming- while answering,

“You’re welcome, and I will!”

And then the Vala of Dreams opened the door, and he and his by then unconscious brother got pulled into a thick black nothingness…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luthien is the face of Namo's illness... Since she was supposed to be the one who made the deepest impact on him, that was really the only role for her. Not to mention that Morgoth represents Namo's sanity, so Luthien being madness makes for a nice symmetry, no? 
> 
> Namo's illness is caused by him being "marred" by the suffering and pain he was confronted with day after day. He fled into his visions (remember his non-linear time perception and all that jazz?) to escape his reality, but his mind was already so focussed on bad things that his foresight only showed him horrors, and after a while he was so weakened by it that he could not return his conscious presence to the present anymore, getting stuck in his nightmares. Alas, that's the explanation I thought up. 
> 
> I was inspired by "American McGee's Alice" and "Alice: Madness Returns" for this, so Sauron better be grateful that he turned out to be a cat and not a teapot... (to know what I mean, look up "eyepot" in Google xD)
> 
> I'll be very grateful for any review you might be willing to spare me...


	13. A Very Tulkas Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doomsman is back in business, and Doom Is Coming… to kick Tulkas' ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!

The whole situation had “Tulkas” written all over it. If he didn’t know his friend so well, Oromë might have suspected evil intent… but he knew well enough that it wasn’t that. It was simply Tulkas being Tulkas. As usual the Vala of War didn’t think it all that much of a problem, and the whole issue had hardly disrupted his good mood for longer than a few minutes. It was probably a good thing, because Tulkas in a foul mood was not something you wanted to share a continent with, but Oromë wasn’t blessed with such a careless mind and he was worrying deeply. Those poor fëar…   
  
He was staring pensively at the wall of the central hall, when out of one of the corridors a fëa came, half limping, half crawling, and completely covered in mud and blood. When the poor soul realized where he was, he let out a barely audible cry, his whole illusionary body trembling in fear and pain.   
  
While Tulkas hadn’t even noticed the arrival, Oromë was shocked. The Great Hunter got up from his seat and quickly approached the trembling fëa. Only when he stood in front of him and met his eyes, he realized who it was… below the dirt a handsome face and blonde tresses were hidden, and the pair of frightened eyes that pleadingly stared at him belonged to Celegorm Feanorion, the one he had once gifted Huan to… He crouched down and reached out a hand to the elf’s fëa, but Celegorm backed away as if he expected to be hit. What had they done to him?  
  
“I won’t hurt you. I only want to help you get up.”  
  
“I c-can’t… h-hurts too much…” His voice was soft and broken when he spoke, and he looked begging at Oromë. “P-Please… please m-make them s-stop… W-We’re s-sorry… Just… P-Please…”  
  
The Vala felt sorry too. He carefully picked Celegorm up from the ground. The elf couldn’t resist anymore, it seemed that simply getting there had asked the last of his strength.   
  
“Ssssh… I won’t harm you…”  
  
“It hurts…”  
  
Oromë wished he knew more of the functioning of fëar, so that he might alleviate the elf’s pain, but it was something completely out of his expertise. All he could do was hold him and whisper words of comfort.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“T-Too m-many… I t-tried to hide… b-but…” A sob escaped the wounded fëa. “T-they got us all…”  
  
“Who did?”  
  
“T-The Teleri… T-The elves of D-Doriath… P-Part of the h-host of F-Fingolfin too… M-More… and o-others… all t-the ones w-we h-hurt…”   
  
Speaking clearly exhausted him, so Oromë held a finger to Celegorm’s lips.  
  
“Sssh… We’re very sorry that it had to come this far. And we’re working on a solution.”  
  
At least, he hoped they were. He peeked at Tulkas, who was looking interestedly at the ceiling, wiggling his legs again. By Eru, the Great Hunter hoped that he was trying to solve this mess.   
  
“M-My brothers…”  
  
Oromë just sighed and caressed Celegorm’s dirty hair.   
  
“All will be well in time. This won’t last forever.”  
  
Or so he hoped.  
  


* * *

  
Irmo woke up with a start, confused and completely disorientated. Only when he realized he was still sitting next to his brother’s bed, and saw his brother sleeping peacefully, at long last free from the illness that had plagued his mind, he calmed down a bit. He got up from his seat, but as soon as he stood straight dizziness overcame him. Everything wobbled and spun before his eyes… A moment later he felt a pair of arms around him. His wife Estë… When his legs gave way, she caught him without effort.   
  
“You did well, my dearest… Námo can finally heal now.”  
  
“Estë, I have to…”  
  
She didn’t even let him finish the sentence, having already felt his thoughts coming before he formulated them completely.  
  
“Out of the question. You’re going to bed, you’re completely exhausted.”  
  
“Wha…?”  
  
Before he could protest, he was already in their bedroom, and Estë was caringly tucking him in. He tried to get up, but the Valie pushed him back into the soft pillows.  
  
“Oh no, you’re not getting away before you’ve slept a decent amount.”  
  
“But Námo…”  
  
“Námo will sleep for now, and so should you.”  
  
Estë filled a goblet with some kind of amber-coloured liquid, and held it out to her husband. Irmo frowned.   
  
“Estë I really don’t need…”  
  
She frowned strictly.  
  
“Do I really have to explain to you what happens to your perception of the world after you spent so long in a dreamscape, or will you just take from your wife that you need your rest?”  
  
Knowing that he couldn’t escape, Irmo sighed and obediently drank from the goblet his wife had given him. He hated being drugged more than anything, but… he knew Estë was right. Unless he slept without disturbances after a feat like Námo’s healing, he got ill himself. Almost immediately after he had downed the concoction a pleasantly warm and drowsy feeling spread through his mind. His head suddenly felt terribly heavy, and the pillows terribly comfortable... Why did he hate this again? He smiled hazily when Estë softly kissed his lips.  
  
“Sleep, my dearest… Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”  
  
As he looked into her eyes his thoughts faded into oblivion, and he slept deeply and free of dreams, while she watched over him and Námo.   
  
Everything was all right again; Irmo had succeeded and was recovering from his long excursion in his brother’s mind, Námo had been freed of his madness and he would soon be ready to reclaim his lordship of Mandos… It was all going perfectly, so the Valie truly didn’t know why she got such a doomy feeling, every time she looked in the direction of the Halls of Waiting…   
  


* * *

  
“Don’t ever do that again, okay? If you feel it’s growing you over the head, just talk to us. We all want to help you.”  
  
Irmo and Námo sat together on a bench in the Gardens of Lorien, and the Vala of Dreams gave his brother a mild reprimand. Námo nodded, and then stared a bit in the distance. With a soft voice he inquired,  
  
“Irmo… when you were in my mind… w-what did you see?”  
  
The Vala of Dreams smiled at his brother.  
  
“Lots of things… I’ll never accuse you of lacking imagination again, that’s for sure.”  
  
“I mean… the visions.”  
  
Irmo’s smile faltered.   
  
“I didn’t understand them. They were horrible…” He bit his lip. “Is that really the future of Middle Earth?”  
  
Námo nodded, and looked a little embarrassed.  
  
“Normally I can’t see that far ahead… but I was so tired of everything, brother. I could see the suffering of every single fëa in my care, but I couldn’t do anything, I had to be stern… unbending… just in every case… I couldn’t heal them for they had to do so themselves.” He sighed. “You don’t know what it’s like, to be hated like some hate me. It never ends; their hatred of me rarely ever gave me a bit of rest. I… I was too tired to control the visions any longer, and I just… let them overwhelm me. They seemed deceptively peaceful and happy at first… happier than my life, at least.”   
  
Irmo wrapped an arm around his brother and pulled him closer.  
  
“I’m sorry you felt like that… and I’m more sorry that we never noticed. Promise me you’ll talk to me if this happens again. I don’t want you to suffer.”  
  
Námo sighed and curled against his brother, while Irmo patted his hair. Normally the Doomsman would never show his need for affection so openly, but… well, he wasn’t in function at the moment, and the stoic façade he held on to for the sake of the fëar wasn’t necessary now. It felt nice, not having to be responsible for a couple thousand dead for once… He relaxed against his brother, and probably would have fallen asleep again if not for a sudden thought.  
  
“Irmo… who is tending to the Halls now?”  
  
Tha Vala of Dreams swallowed. He hadn’t heard much of it, but some of his Maiar’s gossip was quite worrying…  
  
“Err… I’m not sure… there have been a few bumps in the road concerning that, and I’ve missed most of the action, but… If I’m not mistaken, it was Tulkas’ turn.”  
  
Immediately, Námo jumped up.  
  
“Tulkas?! You gave my Halls in the care of TULKAS?!”  
  
Irmo held up his hands in surrender.  
  
“Hey, it wasn’t me! If anyone’s to blame, it’s Manwë.”  
  
“I have to go there immediately! Who knows what he has done to the place! And the fëar, oh Eru...”  
  
Irmo got up as well now.  
  
“Námo, you’re still recovering and I don’t…”  
  
“Irmo I promise you, I will sleep, and have long deep conversations with you as much as you want, as soon as I’ve thrown that overgrown child out of my Halls!”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
And so Irmo and Námo went to the Halls… Their mouths fell open when they saw what had happened there. They stood up to their shins in mud and slimy swamp vegetation, and were just in time to see a group of fëar armed with sticks come out of one corridor and quickly disappear into another, loudly yelling “WE’LL GET HIM!”   
  
Even the sauciest gossip in the Gardens of Lorien couldn’t have prepared them for this… Irmo carefully looked at his brother.  
  
“Please stay calm, brother…”  
  
“CALM?! You expect me to stay calm when… when… ARGH! I can’t even find words for this disaster!”  
  
“It’s probably not as bad as it looks.”  
  
Irmo didn’t really believe that himself. The whole place was wrecked rather thoroughly, and clearly the fëar hadn’t escaped it either.  
  
“NOT AS BAD?! This is a CATASTROPHE!”  
  
Because Námo knew his halls better than anyone, they got to in the central room in no time.  
  
“TULKAS!”  
  
The Vala of War looked up and grinned.  
  
“Yay, Námo! You’re back!”  
  
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HALLS?!”  
  
Tulkas in a foul mood was not something you wanted to encounter, but an Angry Námo was quite possibly worse. The Doomsman looked threatening enough to make even the usually unperturbed Vala of War swallow thickly, not to mention what it did to Oromë. Morgoth had nothing on it…   
  
“Well… err… we had a little bit of a problem with that…”  
  
When Námo took control of Mandos again, he was shocked, so shocked that for a moment his anger made place for an appalled expression of disbelief… only to turn to absolutely terrifying rage as soon as the depth of the trouble became clear to him.  
  
“TULKAS ASTALDO, YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS MESS, OR ERU HELP ME THERE WON’T BE A PLACE ON ARDA WHERE YOU’LL BE SAFE!”  
  
Tulkas embarrassedly said,  
  
“I… Eh… I was bored?”  
  
Wrong. Answer. Námo’s expression became blank and unmoved, and that could mean only one thing: Doom Was Coming. With a deceptively even voice he stated.  
  
“You two are going to stay here while I solve this mess, and not move a single muscle while I’m at it or I promise you that I’ll lock you up in Melkor’s cell and hang you from the wall by your testicles for the coming three ages. Is that understood?”  
  
The twosome swallowed and fearfully nodded. Then Námo concentrated, and gathered the targeted fëar in the central hall. A moment later, they were all there. Irmo’s eyes widened when he saw the horrible conditions they were in. In the best case they stared at them with confused and fearful eyes, but some of them seemed to be so injured that they had hardly taken notice of the unexpected transportation… Oromë, who had seen the injured fëa of Celegorm, realized that the blonde Fëanorian was one of the lucky ones…  
Námo carefully approached the tormented fëar to assess the damage.   
  
Maeglin was clinging to his father, eyes hazy with pain and despair, and Eöl wasn’t in a much better state. There were no visible injuries, but the Doomsman could see in mind how grievously hurt they both were… Maedhros and Caranthir were still standing, but only barely, willpower being the only thing that stopped them from collapsing in exhaustion. Curufin lay in the mud, staring at the ceiling with an empty gaze, not unconscious but hardly aware anymore. It appeared that his mind had given up the fight when his illusionary body wouldn’t. The Ambarussa twins were curled on a heap, tremblingly clutching each other and weakly moaning in pain. And last but not least… there was the battered and beaten fëa of Fëanor. Of all the ones that had been targeted, it seemed that he had gotten the worst treatment…  
  
The Doomsman brought them all to the rooms of his wife Vairë, which were adjacent to the halls of the dead but had been spared of the swamp treatment. He got them clean of the mud and blood, laid them down in Vairë’s pillows, and took away their pain, one by one. Internally he was shaking his head. Cruelty was all but a trait of Men alone… Irmo helped him, comforting the confounded and hurt fëar and allowing them to sleep without nightmares. The Doomsman was deeply saddened by the state they were all in; this was not what his halls were for! Those who were doomed to roam them for eternity had received their punishment already; they should not ever have been subjected to something like this. When he bent over Caranthir, the elf weakly said,  
  
“W-We’re s-sorry… W-We were h-horrible t-to you… while y-you never m-mistreated us… and n-never hurt us… W-we’re s-so sorry…” He pleadingly looked at Námo and whispered, “P-Please d-don’t go a-away again… w-we p-promise not t-to make t-trouble again…”  
  
Námo kindly stroked over Caranthir’s head, easing the fëa’s suffering and returning him to a state where he was completely free of all discomfort. The elf’s eyes widened, and the Vala of the Dead calmly stated,  
  
“I know. I won’t go away again, I promise. Rest, little one.”  
  
Caranthir’s features relaxed, and overcome with exhaustion he succumbed to the sleep the Vala’s touch granted him. He would be okay, that much Námo could tell. There were other cases though… The Ambarussa twins were so deeply traumatised that he feared he would have to erase or at least veil their memory of the events for them to heal, and Curufin barely responded to his touch anymore, that far he had retreated in his own mind. And then Fëanor… the once so proud and arrogant Noldo had been reduced to a shivering, mumbling wreck, tortured to –and quite possibly over- the edge of insanity. One look was enough for Námo to realize that he wouldn’t be able to heal his fëa just like that, and when Irmo reached them he had to support that judgement. Once again the Noldo’s fire had brought about his downfall… Unlike Curufin’s mind, that had given out to salvage some sanity, Fëanor had resisted the intense pain until not just his mind but his very fëa was so damaged that when Námo freed him of the pain, he instinctively folded in on himself, completely detaching from everything. They attempted to pull him back from this self-imposed lockdown, but he did not even slightly acknowledge their mental touch anymore. His being was too damaged to process anything. The Doomsman sighed sadly.  
  
“How are we any better than Melkor and his followers, if we let this happen to someone’s fëa? We… we are supposed to care for and protect the unhoused ones…”  
  
Irmo clenched his brother’s hand and rationally stated.  
  
“This is not our fault.”  
  
Námo nodded, but it was clear to see that he was upset. He softly stroked through Fëanor’s hair, and Irmo curiously asked,  
  
“What will you do to him?”  
  
“It will take time for him to heal, a lot of time, but he will. I know exactly who he needs to be with now.”  
  
Caringly he gathered the broken fëa in his arms, and carried him to Vairë’s weaving rooms. The Noldo’s eyes were vacant and without the least recognition… The sight hurt Námo more than he showed. His wife was in a deep trance, weaving the histories of the world while surrounded by her Maiar, but when he entered he broke her concentration. She looked up in surprise, and then elation when she recognized her husband.   
  
“Námo! You’re back!”  
  
The Doomsman permitted himself a smile. There had never been great romance between him and his wife, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t love her. In a way she was his dearest friend, and he cared deeply for her.  
  
“I am…”  
  
Then Vairë noticed whom he was holding.   
  
“Námo is that…”  
  
“Yes it is. I’m afraid I am in need of one of your servants.”  
  
Vairë immediately knew who he meant, and pointed him in the right direction. Miriel, Fëanor’s mother who had chosen to remain in the halls forever, was working on decorating the border of a large tapestry there. She had been a personal friend of Vairë for many ages already, aiding her in her work alongside the Weaver’s Maiar, and she rarely ever mingled among the fëar of the other dead. After all, she wasn’t “waiting” anymore; she was a permanent resident. Just like the others who helped Vairë she had somewhat missed out on the whole debacle that had taken place in Mandos…   
  
“Miriel…”  
  
She looked up from her work, and as she realized whom the Vala was holding her eyes widened in shock. She dropped her tools and forgot all decorum.  
  
“My child!”  
  
“He has been injured grievously, Miriel. I know he has committed great evi…”   
Miriel rushed to him, not even letting him finish.  
  
“My child… please, my lord… w-what happened to him?”  
  
Námo didn’t know himself what exactly had taken place in his absence, so he sighed.  
  
“It’s a long story. His wounds run deep in his fëa, and he has closed his mind so tightly that forcefully breaking through would only hurt him more.” He could see that the news struck the she-elf deeply… “I wanted to ask if you could care for him. Despite everything, you are of all people most likely to succeed in reaching him.”  
  
Miriel nodded.   
  
“You don’t have to ask. He is my child before all else. Please, give him to me.”  
Námo carefully lowered Fëanor in her arms, and she sat down again, cradling him. To the Doomsman’s surprise, the comforting touch of Miriel stirred a response in her son… He sensed ho the Noldo's fëa weakly reached out at the caress of his mother, instinctively, like a very young and scared elfling. His gaze remained empty and unseeing, but nevertheless a barely audible mental whisper escaped his torn mind, both hopeful and disbelieving.  
  
“Ammë?”  
  
It seemed that his fëa, even in its near-irreparable state, recognized his mother instinctively… As Miriel smiled at him and softly comforted him, Námo left the room to give them some privacy. Outside, in the room where they had put the other fëar to sleep, Irmo was waiting for him.   
  
“Where did you bring him?”  
  
Námo sent his brother a knowing look.  
  
“To someone I probably should have brought him to sooner. It was rather foolish of me not to see that.”  
  
That was all he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have Namo, who is back in business and Not Happy with Tulkas and Oromë, Irmo, who gets drugged by his wife and doesn't mind it half as much as he pretends he does, and the fëar, who are all in various states of despair and disrepair... (Anything that can make Maeglin and Eöl seek comfort with each other must be pretty damn horrible, don't you think?)
> 
> Don't worry, all of them -even Fëanor- will heal... in time... 
> 
> Please do comment, your opinion is greatly valued!


	14. Crime And Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are reprimands, and we learn about the sad situation that is Namo's sex life.

In the still swampy Halls of Waiting, Námo had now gathered together all the fëar who had participated in the ill-advised manhunt. And Eru, there were a lot of them.  
  
“You should be ASHAMED of yourselves.”  
  
The fëar all stared at the floor as the Doomsman walked between them.   
  
“There is NO excuse. And don’t you dare say that Tulkas told you to do it, because you ALL know that Tulkas is not a source of reliable advice, ever! Nobody forced you or took away your free will, you all had the choice to behave like civilized people, and instead you’ve gone about fighting like orcs with sticks and stones!”  
  
He frowned at the embarrassed offenders.  
  
“Do you know why you are to leave your resentment behind in the halls, before you can go to Aman?” Quite a few elves shook their heads. “Well, I will tell you, and I think it is very sad that you don’t realize this yourselves.” Námo’s frown deepened. “Discord, and hatred, and lust for revenge… those are the seeds that Melkor’s marring of Arda has planted in you! You are obliged to let go of those feelings, not only to heal your own fëa, but also to keep the peace and beauty of the elven homeland! What do you think would happen if you were sent back full of hatred and bitterness over what you have lost? How long do you think Aman would remain beautiful and peaceful, if the souls of its inhabitants were tainted?”   
  
It was clear that his words left a deep impression… the fëar of the elves seemed to shrink in Námo’s presence. The Doomsman walked with great strides to the place where Oromë and Tulkas were still waiting.   
  
“Tulkas Astaldo. You should be ashamed as well, even more than the fëar you so unthinkingly misled! You of all people, who holds such a grudge against Melkor, should know better than to spread discord in a place of peace!”  
  
The Vala of War stared in shame at the floor.   
  
“I don’t want any excuses! Causing fights because you are bored is behaviour that might fit in the pits of Utumno, but not in Aman, and certainly not in the Halls of Waiting! You are a Vala; your voice was among ours in the song of creation! How is it that you have lived for all these ages and still haven’t gained even a single ounce of wisdom!?”  
  
Tulkas opened his mouth, but a glare of Námo shut him up before he could make a sound. The Doomsman then looked at Oromë.  
  
“I know you mean well. You always do. I have stopped wondering how it is that such a reasonable person as yourself always gets dragged along with that mess on two legs that goes by the name Tulkas Astaldo. Fact is however, you are as guilty as he is.”  
  
Oromë bit his lip and nodded like a punished child.   
  
“I have no authority over you two, only Manwë does, but believe me when I tell you that the last word isn’t spoken about this yet!”  
  
He turned back to the fëar, and even those in the other rooms could hear him when he raised his voice.  
  
“As for you lot, you are going to clean this place. I don’t care how you do it, but you’re all going to help my Maiar to get rid of this muck! And I don’t care if it takes you the rest of the age to do it, clean it you will!”  
  
And not a single fëa dared to utter a single word in objection…   
  


* * *

  
Námo had slept a long time, watched over by Vairë and Irmo... In the meantime, the fëar had all aided the Doomsman’s Maiar in the cleaning of Mandos. Now the two Fëanturi brothers were sitting together in the gleaming black halls, enjoying the peace and quiet that once more permeated the place. Irmo hadn’t told his brother all he had seen when in his mind, but it still egged him. He hated keeping secrets from Námo… So, he decided to risk it, and tell him. With red cheeks he hesitatingly began.  
  
“Námo… when I was in your mind…”  
  
“You’ve seen something you shouldn’t have, and wished you could forget?”  
  
Irmo looked in surprise at his brother.  
  
“You… you know?”  
  
“Oh please, I know my own mind. It’s highly unlikely that you’ve walked straight through it without stumbling on something you wish you could bleach from your memory.” He smirked at his brother’s stupefied face. “So, what was it?”  
  
Irmo blushed heavily.  
  
“Well, for one I’ll probably never be able to look Elu Thingol in the face again without thinking “Bad Elf”…”  
  
Námo chuckled dryly.  
  
“Oh, that one.”  
  
“And I’ve seen far more of Fëanor than I ever thought or hoped I would.”  
Now Námo raised an eyebrow.   
  
“You’ve seen everything?”  
  
“Of Fëanor? It was pretty hard not to.”  
  
The Doomsman rolled his eyes.  
  
“I meant whether you’ve seen all the different… images.”  
  
“Not all of it! Just… the descriptions your mind provided spoke volumes at some points.” Irmo hesitated a bit. “By the way, I… I never knew you were…”  
  
“Interested in males?”  
  
“Well, yes.”  
  
“I don’t really have a preference, it depends.” Námo looked a little sad. “You must know, brother… I care greatly for my wife, but not in a sexual manner. Our love runs deep, but is exclusively platonic.”   
  
Irmo, who had a very varied and satisfying sexual life with his own spouse, felt a little troubled now.   
  
“And you have never taken an interest in anyone el…” The moment the words left his lips, he knew. The amount of "images" of that particular interest had little other explanation... “Oh. Right.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“And you have never trie…”  
  
“It would have been a most grievous conflict of interests. Not to mention that he hates me.” Námo looked seriously at his brother. “Promise me you will stay out of this and keep it to yourself.”  
  
“I… I will keep your secret brother, I promise.”  
  
Irmo felt sad for his brother… and once again, his curiosity got the better of him.  
  
“So… how long has it been?”  
  
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but… Vairë and I decided to try it once, shortly after creation. It was weird and uncomfortable, and in the end it was more hilarious than passionate. We haven’t done anything since.”  
  
The younger Vala’s mouth fell open.  
  
“You’ve been celibate since creation? No wonder you started fantasizing about Glorfindel’s horses.”  
  
“Irmo, that’s not funny!”  
  
“I know it isn’t. It’s dramatic.”  
  
“Not everyone can call upon the title of “Vala of Desire”, little brother. Usually there’s not much passion in the realm of the dead.”  
  
“It’s just not healthy.”  
  
“What are you going to do then?”  
  
“It’s not what I am going to do, it’s what you are going to do.”  
  
Námo raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You are going to get yourself together and at least try to make peace with Fëanor. Even if you don’t do anything else at least he won’t hate you anymore then, and that would be a good start. I know he’s injured now, but he won’t be forever, and now he has seen what life with Tulkas is like he might appreciate you more.”  
  
“Irmo, it would be a conf…”  
  
“Nonsense. It’s not a conflict of interests. He separated from his wife even before he doomed himself and his family, and you can’t say that you doomed him to keep him to yourself because you’ve avoided being around him ever since he’s in your halls.”   
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“Vairë told me.”  
  
“Tssss. So you’re all conspiring against me now?”  
  
“Not against you, it’s for your own good. I will keep your secret, but you do something about it. Healer’s orders!”  
  
“The idea that he would ever be able to forgive me for the doom that I called out over him is ridiculous.”  
  
“I’ll tell you what is ridiculous.“ Irmo waited a moment to keep the tension, and then most seriously stated, “Sauron with cat ears.”  
  
Despite everything, Námo laughed.  
  
“Little brother, you are impossible.”  
  
“Tell that to your imagination!”  
  


* * *

  
“How are you doing in there?”  
  
“How do you think?”  
  
Tulkas’ voice was the epitome of sarcasm, and Oromë stated,  
  
“You’re bored.”  
  
“You know, I never thought the day would come, but I’m actually respecting that bastard Morgoth more now.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“To be still capable of evil plans after three ages in this place is a token of a strong mind. Seriously, this shack is more boring than Manwë’s speeches. It makes my brain shrivel!”  
  
Oromë chuckled at his friend. Tulkas had, in his embarrassment, volunteered to sit out a Melkor-like punishment in the fallen Vala’s old cell, as a display of penitence for his discord spreading… And so it came that the Vala of War was currently walking circles in the dark cell, while Oromë held him company on the other side of the bars. They hadn’t made it solitary confinement for fear that Tulkas would actually lose his mind then (and not even Irmo wanted to venture there.)   
  
“The decade is almost over, you’ll be out in a few months.”  
  
“When I get out, I swear I’m never setting foot in these halls again. This was the absolute antipode of fun. I have never had this much non-fun in my entire life.”  
  
“I told you, didn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, you did. Hope you’re happy now. How is everyone doing, by the way?”  
  
“With the way they’re all gossiping, even Melkor in the Void will have heard all about it by now.”  
  
“Good, then at least someone is having fun.” Tulkas grinned, seemingly forgetting his surroundings for a moment. “When I get out, we’re going to have an epic party, no?”  
  
Oromë could feel trouble coming…   
  
“Sure…”  
  
“We can do it on Taniquetil! We just invite everyone, and when Manwë starts complaining we can push him in the cake. It will be hilarious!”  
  
And that was the moment that the Great Hunter realized that just like nothing could change Melkor’s evilness, there was nothing in Arda or beyond that would ever make Tulkas grow up…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little motivation for my Fëanor/Namo shipping. Normally I'm all for Fëanor/Nerdanel, but thanks to my best friend Agnes Riemann -who wrote an unasked-for sexual plot twist into this story- this went down the slash alley.
> 
> Namo is lonely and somewhat isolated from the others due to his knowledge of the future, and on top of that he is also the one responsible for speaking doom and guarding the dead... I imagine that his daily life isn't exactly very... lively. As he said himself, the Halls of Waiting are bereft of passion. And Fëanor... well, there is probably no one more passionate and fiery than him. He was like, the living embodiment of everything that Namo missed and longed for. And even knowing what would happen to and because of him didn't change that; it probably just made the longing worse. In this story, Namo has loved Fëanor from the day he was born (non-linear time perception, remember?), and the intense hatred Fëanor felt for him is one of the reasons he lost his mind... A bit like, the ultimate rejection without even having asked. (Can we all say "Poor Namo" now? xD)
> 
> As for Tulkas... The Valar better brace themselves for the day he comes free... :D Please review, comments and opinions are VERY welcomed!


	15. The Importance Of Being Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fëanor apologizes. Yeah, he's quite baffled by it himself.

In the beginning he slept most of the time, and when nightmares assaulted him there was always his ammë, who held him and assured him that no one would harm him. His mind refused to think any further than that, and for years he remained in that half-aware state, cradled in his mother’s arms or dozing on soft pillows while she worked, perfectly safe. It took a lot of time to convince his tortured fëa that he really was safe, before he could heal any further... At long last though his mind deemed him ready, and as the wounds of his soul healed, bit-by-bit the veil was lifted from his comprehension.  
From a skittish and frightened fëa who hid behind his mother’s skirts despite his age, he returned to being his old self… minus one thing. Fëanor Curufinwë had lost his old desire to leave the halls. As he sat next to his mother, helping her arrange her broidering yarn like he had done when that was the only thing he was able to concentrate on, he realized that he truly didn’t want to leave anymore. 

It wasn’t that being doomed was so much more attractive now, not at all… but the “incident” had made him realize exactly how much people loathed him and his children. That was something he had always conveniently forgotten before, or at least refused to acknowledge... He was Fëanor Curufinwë, the son his father was most proud of, the most brilliant elf to have ever lived, and despite his actions and fate that was the self-image he had always held on to. Now that image was gone forever, and with it his will to fight his doom. 

As he sorted the many-coloured threads with nimble fingers, and received a warm smile from his mother for it, he thought about his own children. Did they still think about their mother? Did they miss her still? Their mother… Fëanor’s long fingers lingered for a moment on the series of red threads, remembering the colour of her tresses. Nerdanel… He had loved her once, and she him, but that was long ago already and things had been different back then. He had been different. For a moment he hesitated in his sorting, the red yarn tangled between his fingers like he had once held a lock of her hair. Or maybe not, he thought. Maybe he had been exactly the same. Perhaps broken marriages were simply the fate of the House of Finwë. He put the thread along with the others, and discarded the thoughts of his wife. She wasn’t here and she never would be. 

“Fëanor, my child… what is it that you pull such a sour face for?”  
He smiled sadly at Miriel.

“Nothing, ammë. Thoughts of the past.”

The broideress calmly smiled back at him as he put the last threads in their correct order. He had brought her much grief, that fiery, brilliant son of hers. Vairë had attempted to keep it from her when it happened, but like all stories of Arda it had eventually reached her, entwined into tapestries requiring decoration. Fëanor didn’t know that it was she who had decorated the borders of his woven story, crying over every single one of his ill-advised actions and the suffering they had caused... and she would never tell him. Many times she had wondered if perhaps he would have grown into a different person if she had been there to lead and support him... 

When Námo had brought him to her, broken and injured, she had felt it was something of a second chance. She had tried her best to give him all the love and care she hadn’t been able to give him during his life… Miriel hoped it had helped at least a bit. 

When she looked at him now she still grieved, if not for the same reasons anymore. He had hidden his fire deep inside himself, along with the memories that were too painful for him to bear. Although he had lost his restlessness, she doubted that what he had found was peace. 

“Maybe you should take a walk. You’re done with the sorting, watching me embroider would only bore you.”

For a moment a hint of his old fear flickered in Fëanor’s eyes, and he already opened his mouth to say that he was perfectly content watching his mother work… but then he caught her encouraging look and got himself together.

“All right, ammë.”

And Fëanor got up from his spot next to his mother, and left the room. Vairë’s chambers, technically a part of Mandos but in practice subject to different laws, were larger than one might think. The dark walls were decorated with the tapestries that weren’t important or imposing enough for the Halls of the Dead, and there were many corners with benches and colourful pillows, inviting the onlooker to take a seat and immerse himself in the woven storylines. 

Many people believed that Vairë and her Maiar only recorded the “glorious” parts of history, the battles, the ill-fated romances of key people, the dangerous quests and the evil conspiracies… The truth was however that even though only the important tapestries had a place in the Halls of Waiting, the Weaver of Stories truly recorded every story of Arda. On his walk, Fëanor encountered the woven accounts of begetting day parties, marriages, funerals, elves searching for a lost horse, marchwardens sharing tales around a campfire, and many more ordinary, unimportant things that in their own way had influenced the history of Arda. There was something oddly soothing about being surrounded by so much normality, he thought to himself. The longer he walked, the calmer he felt himself become…

Vairë’s rooms were mostly empty, as her Maiar rarely took time off from their work and the fëar of the dead generally had no place there. Therefor Fëanor startled greatly when he entered a room and saw it was already occupied. A tall dark figure was seated on one of the pillowed benches, face turned away from the door. The Noldo didn’t know whom he had in front of him, until the unknown turned around. Dark, almost black eyes lay deep in a handsome, pale face framed by long black tresses, and the expression of melancholy they held didn’t seem to fit at all with the image Fëanor had of the person in question… It was a ridiculous thought, but the Vala of the Dead seemed almost lost, sitting there. 

“Fëanor.”

“Lord Námo.”

There hung an uncomfortable silence between them. It seemed that neither of them knew what to say to each other now that they were at long last face to face again. Fëanor had greatly despised and hated the Vala, and he didn’t think that the Doomsman had ever held much love for him either… Yet Námo didn’t send him away. With a deep and resonant voice he said,

“Please, sit with me. I believe it is about time that we speak.”

Hesitatingly, Fëanor sat down next to the Doomsman. The Vala sent him an oddly apprehensive glance, before quietly stating.

“It was not my wish, the things that happened to you.”

Fëanor nodded, not knowing what else to do, or even how to interpret that statement. How many times hadn’t he imagined what he would say to the Doomsman, should they ever be face to face? How many times hadn’t he practiced those vicious, spiteful words out loud, making them echo dangerously through the dark halls? All that practice, and yet he couldn’t get a single word over his lips. And when he finally managed to conquer the blockage between his mind and tongue, the words that came out were all but what he had imagined he would say.

“You were right.”

Námo raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“It’s a good thing that we can’t leave this place. Nobody wants us anyway.” He seriously looked at Námo. “They hate us too much, and their hatred would damage more than just us. It is so easily awakened, it would damage Aman.”

Námo looked at him in utter disbelief. Of all the things he could have said… 

The Doomsman liked the normalcy of his wife’s chambers, the pleasant non-importance of everything that wasn’t a matter of life and death… but he had always tried his best to stay away from the weaving quarters, for fear of running into Fëanor. The walls had ears in Mandos, and every venomous word that the Noldo had ever yelled or whispered to them was carved in Námo’s mind like in stone. It had been bad enough to hear and feel Fëanor’s hatred of him indirectly; face-to-face it would have been crippling. Yet now they sat there, and no hard word had so far left Fëanor’s mouth… He even continued, with a small tremble in his voice.

“We were wrong to blame you. I was wrong. Morgoth might be to blame, and we ourselves, but… not you. You had even less say in it than we did.”

“You have hated and cursed me.”

Fëanor looked at his feet. 

“Yes. I didn’t understand it, and the doom you declared would be ours only confirmed the ideas I already had about you and the other Valar. I was…”

He didn’t finish that sentence, but he didn’t have to. Námo knew what he meant.

“What changed your mind?”

“If I would say a change of scenery, would that be a bad pun?”

“It might just be an accurate description.”

Námo and Fëanor looked at each other, hesitatingly, with the trepidation of two old enemies who don’t really trust each other not to attack. Could there ever be anything but mistrust and mutual dislike between them?

“They say that it was you who brought me to my mother, after the… incident.”

“It was I indeed.”

“Why? If you didn’t already hate me for my actions on Middle Earth, then my behaviour after I died can’t exactly have made myself any more liked… if anything, you might have thought that it was exactly what I deserved.” Under his breath, the Noldo added. “And maybe I did…”

“No one deserved that.” Námo’s voice was soft, with a hint of sadness that puzzled Fëanor. “I don’t wish harm upon the fëar in my care, no matter what they have done during their lives, and no matter how they respond to their fate.”

“You always cared well for us. Surprisingly well actually, given how we thanked you for it.”

“I’m used to being hated.”

Again they were silent, and Fëanor suddenly felt bad. He wondered if Námo felt as dreadful under the knowledge of being hated as he himself did… Because dreadful it was. Now that the knowledge had finally, after all those years, penetrated the thick layers of pride and probable insanity… it was the worst feeling ever. Desperate, tiring and inescapable. And with that feeling pressing on his mind, Fëanor did something wholly unexpected.

“I’m sorry.” Námo looked up in surprise, and the Noldo smirked a little. “I actually am.”

“For what?”

“Lots of things, but mostly for how I behaved myself here, after I died. All what I did before was… well, it was what it was and regretting it wouldn’t help a thing. But I should have been enough of an adult to not lose my dignity completely here. It was childish… and kind of unfair towards you.”

“Apologies accepted…” Námo cocked his head to the side a bit. “I never thought I’d ever hear you apologize.”

“Neither did I.”

And there it was. A smile. All of a sudden, Fëanor felt freed. Maybe… maybe he should have apologized before. It was… unburdening. He felt like a ton lighter all of a sudden… 

“I’m glad we talked.”

“I… Me too.”

After a moment of silence, Námo said,

“There is a rare type of tranquillity in these rooms. I find that it calms my mind.”

“It does… Do you come here often?”

The question, surprising as it was, made Námo smile, again.

“Actually… yes. I do.” 

They sat together in silence for quite a while, Fëanor didn’t know how long. All he knew was that it had been a long time since he had felt so at peace… A part of him irrationally wished that they could stay like that forever, enjoying the companionable silence and tranquillity of Vairë’s rooms. At long last though, the Doomsman got up and smoothed his black robes. 

“I’m required in the Halls now, but…”

Almost automatically, Fëanor added before he could stop himself,

“But you’ll come back.”

“Yes.”

The Vala then disappeared into the shadows, and as Fëanor walked back to the weaving rooms, he wondered where this sudden urge to smile came from, and why he found it so hard to fight… 

And somewhere in the Gardens of Lorien, a certain Vala of Dreams and Desire looked up from his work, his smile slowly turning into a big, knowing grin…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the one-but-last chapter... and a bit of Fëanor/Namo for you. 
> 
> Fëanor is surprisingly reasonable here, don't you think? Something good came from Tulkas' bad ideas after all... As Fëanor healed from the torturous treatment Tulkas indirectly put him through, old wounds and older insanity also started to heal, making him regain parts of his mind that had seemed forever lost after the death of his father and the theft of the Silmarils... Not to say that the poor dear isn't completely messed up still, but... well, he's more rational now and that's a plus isn't it?
> 
> Also, Irmo is going to have so much fun with these two. Vala of Desire and all that... xD


	16. To Lie About Cake (Also, Winter Is Coming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tulkas inadvertently causes trouble. Again.

Given the results imprisoning a Vala had had before, it was no wonder that the whole of Valinor had braced itself for the day Tulkas would be freed from Mandos… Yet, when the day came it passed without any notable occurrences, to everyone’s surprise. And as more time passed without any trouble from the Vala of War, the other Valar dared to relax. Maybe Tulkas had really learned his lesson this time…   
  
Finally free, Tulkas honestly tried to be on his best behaviour. That decade in Melkor’s cell wouldn’t be lightly forgotten, and he really didn’t want to end up there again, ever. So for a while he celebrated his freedom in relatively harmless ways; by running through the woods and rolling in the hay with his wife, by hunting, holding feasts and getting incredibly drunk with Oromë, and by generally avoiding all the other Valar, especially Namo. There certainly was no lack of good will on Tulkas’ part. In retrospect, there probably was a little too much good will…  
  
It is fairly difficult to avoid each other when you are as closely related as the Valar are. And although Tulkas had so far succeeded pretty well in not seeing anyone other than Nessa, Vana and Oromë, the day came that he visited his best friend while Vana was having her sister over. The two Valier sat on the patio with tea and cake, and smiled amiably when the Vala of War passed them.  
  
“Ah, Tulkas! Long time no see!”  
  
“Oh, err… Yavanna. Hi. How are you?”  
  
Yavanna had long forgiven Tulkas for his stint in Mandos; she wasn’t prone to keeping grudges –life with Aulë would be impossible if she did- and even though it had never been mentioned she realized that she had helped wreck the Halls as well. Hence why she cheerfully offered the blonde a cup of tea and a thin slice of cake.   
  
“I’m fine! Here, have a cup. It’s a new blend that I’m working on together with Vana. What do you think?”  
  
Vana looked at the Vala of War holding the fragile porcelain cup in his large hands, and had to suppress a giggle. Being tall and extremely muscled, Tulkas looked ridiculously out of proportion at their patio table, and the fact that he daintily sipped from the cup and tried very hard to look less large and imposing didn’t really help with that. He effectively looked about as comfortable as Ulmo in a desert… Another chuckle threatened to escape her mouth, so she quickly took a bite from her cake to mask it. Maybe it was the cake, she thought. She always got a little giggly from her sister’s baking…   
  
“It is…” Tulkas halted to swallow his cake “Very good, Yavanna. And so is the cake. Great cake. What’s in it?”  
  
The cake Yavanna had brought was one of Aiwendil, but the Valie didn’t worry about it. It was a very “mildly spiced” cake, as it was meant for her sister, and the effect of such a tiny slice on someone of Tulkas’ size was hardly noticeable anyway. She smiled at the Vala.  
  
“One of my Maiar baked it. Aiwendil, maybe you know him?”  
  
“He is one of the former Istari, no?”  
  
“Yes, and he brought some very interesting and tasty plants with him from Middle Earth when he returned. He bakes the best cake in Valinor!”  
  
“I can’t say I have a lot of material for comparison, but this cake is indeed very good. Mind if I have another slice?”  
  
“Oh, not at all! Have at it! You know, you should place an order with him once. Just say I sent you and he’ll make you something very special!”   
  


* * *

  
After three slices of cake, Tulkas found himself in an oddly philosophical mood, and when his thoughts turned to his recent imprisonment he quietly decided it was a good thing his family was so kind and forgiving. He had really behaved quite badly in Mandos… Now he thought about it, he was grateful that he hadn’t gone through with his plan to hold a large party on Taniquetil without asking Manwë. He really loved snow, but messing up someone’s house right after being imprisoned for doing exactly that… well, even he could see that wasn’t the smartest idea. At least, he could now, for some reason.   
  
Tulkas took another slice of cake, and mused that it could have all turned out much worse for him. The Vala suddenly realized that, considering the crimes each of them had committed, ten years for him was like three ages for Morgoth. Manwë loved his family, and therefor the Elder King had judged him kinder than his deeds required. He had actually deserved a much harsher punishment…   
  
When Oromë finally returned from his round in the woods, and found his best friend at his wife’s tea table, he immediately saw something was amiss. Tulkas, always-happy Tulkas, wasn’t smiling. Actually he looked so dead serious that it was downright scary. The women were in deep conversation about flowers, and Tulkas was just staring pensively into his cup of tea. The Great Hunter didn’t know how fast he had to “save” his friend from the women who were obviously doing something unhealthy to him. Back in the woods, he carefully asked,  
  
“Tulkas, are you okay?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sure…”  
  
The Vala still looked a bit off…  
  
“You don’t look okay… What was in that tea?”  
  
“I don’t know, Yavanna gave me a list of all ingredients but I forgot. The cake was tasty, though.”  
  
“Cake? You should never, ever eat stuff Yavanna makes. I know it seems strange, but her cooking is dangerous. Like really.”  
  
“She didn’t make it, one of her Maiar did.”  
  
“Still.”  
  
“But it was tasty! I’m sure nothing was wrong with it. Besides, no bad cooking can beat Manwë’s flaming soufflé incident.”  
  
“Oh right, that was bad indeed. I’ve heard the ceiling is still black in their small dining room.”  
  
Tulkas was grinning again, and so Oromë forgot about the cake, and the thing he had wanted to say about Yavanna’s cooking. Ah well, it wasn’t as if he really needed to remind Tulkas of the shameful time he had eaten lunch at Yavanna’s and spent the rest of the day being chased by angry purple unicorns…   
  
And so it happened that Tulkas never heard which role a certain Aiwendil’s mushroom soup had played in that whole event. There is no way to tell what he would have done if he had known, but fact is that he didn’t have the slightest suspicion when he sought out that particular Maia for a special request…   
  


* * *

  
“We have talked about this. Eonwë and Ilmarë will take care of everything, and you don’t have to do anything you wouldn’t normally do. Just… do what you always do. I don’t know. Nothing unusual. No surprises.”  
  
“Varda my dear, it’ll be fine, I promise. Just go now.”  
  
“Don’t try to cook, or clean, or repair something, or…”  
  
“Varda, I get it. Just go enjoy your time with Irmo and Estë. It’s been ages since you last went to their gardens and I know you love it there. Just relax, everything will be perfectly fine here.”  
  
Varda sighed and looked despairingly at her husband. She loved him with the whole of her being, but it couldn’t be denied that the Elder King was a total klutz in all matters practical. And that wasn’t a problem when she was around, but somehow every time she left their halls she came home to a complete disaster. And usually said disaster was a surprise attempt gone wrong.  
  
“No surprises, Manawenûz. Not even if you think I would really like it. Promise me.”  
  
Manwë sent her an endearing smile.  
  
“I promise. No surprises. Everything will be exactly as you left it here.”  
  
“Okay then. I’ll be back soon.” She kissed him. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you too… have fun and greet Irmo from me, okay?”  
  
“I will. Bye!”  
  
And then she was gone. Manwë stared at the empty spot a little indecisively, and then decided to go talk to his eagles. Nothing could go wrong with that, right? Not to mention that they always had the best gossip…  
  


* * *

  
“My Lord, a package arrived for you.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Eonwë was holding a large white-frosted cake in front of him and added needlessly,  
  
“It appears to be a cake.”  
  
“I… Yes, err... I can see that…”  
  
Manwë had been in light reverie, overthinking matters of great spiritual importance, and suddenly being woken from that state always left him a little fuzzy. He stared non-comprehending at the cake that Eonwë so invitingly presented before him. He liked cake. When had he last had cake? He frowned. Varda should not see this cake; she would think he had tried to surprise her while he had explicitly promised not to. The cake had to go, preferably back to where it came from. But where did it come from?  
  
“Err… Eonwë, where did this cake come from?”  
  
“I don’t know; there was no message attached and it was delivered by birds. Not the eagles, just birds from the woods.” The Maia hesitated. “It might be a present from Yavanna.”  
  
That complicated matters. He could of course get rid of it, but… if Yavanna then asked what he thought of her cake, he would have to lie. And he was terrible at lying. She would see through him right away. And in any case, it was really bad manners to throw a cake away. The Elder King pensively looked at the offending piece of bakery. He really liked cake. And it had been a long while since he last had any. Hmm, now he thought about it, he knew the perfect way to make it disappear. With a nod he dismissed his herald.  
“Leave it here. I will take care of it.”  
  
Eonwë placed the cake on the table and left with a little bow. After he was gone, Manwë broke off a piece, too full of anticipation to get cutlery. The strange herbal scent confirmed to him where the cake came from… Manwë stuck the piece in his mouth and smiled. He had completely forgotten what a great cook Yavanna was… Why did he and Varda never have dinner at her place anymore? This cake was absolutely delicious! “Making it disappear” would be less of a task than he had thought…  
  


* * *

  
Visiting Irmo’s gardens was always a pleasure; sleeping in, listening to the birds, having pleasant conversations with Estë, drinking light wine and enjoying bite-sized delicacies… Varda sighed contentedly. Irmo was a gracious host and Estë one of her dearest friends, and it was a pity that she couldn’t visit them more often. Maybe if this all went well…  
  
“So, what’s on your mind? You look incredibly pensive, my dear.”  
  
Irmo smiled at her and Varda sighed again, less contentedly now.  
  
“Manwë. I’m worried about him.”  
  
“He has successfully ruled Valinor for thousands of years now, you would think he can survive being on his own for a little while, no?”  
  
Varda laughed.  
  
“Oh yes, you would think that indeed.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“Should I remind you of the time he thought having it rain inside was an efficient cleaning method?”  
  
Estë, who was more informed about Manwë’s household adventures, chuckled.   
  
“Not to mention his attempts at cooking.”  
  
Varda smiled.  
  
“Oh yes, I will never forget his salad with fried pumpkin pieces.”   
  
Irmo frowned.  
  
“That… doesn’t immediately sound like a disaster?”  
Varda dryly added.  
  
“He used a decorative pumpkin. He also somehow managed to set it on fire.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Indeed, that was my response as well when I got home.”  
  
Estë patted the Star Queen on the back.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be all right this time. You have taken care of everything, there is nothing he could do wrong this time, not even accidentally.”  
  
Varda smiled at her friend.  
  
“I hope you are right…”  
  
The overstressed Valie leant back in her chair and looked at the sky. It was a lovely day, she was with friends, and nothing, absolutely nothing would happen to Manwë. She should just relax. Having that settled, Varda smiled. With a sigh she allowed her eyes to unfocus in pleasant reverie...  
  


* * *

  
Varda woke up when something wet touched her face.   
She blinked a couple times, not entirely understanding what she was seeing. The blue sky she had enjoyed just moments before… was white. Snow-white to be precise, and tiny cold flakes were falling from the sky, covering the gardens around her with a thin layer of pristine white. Oh Eru.   
  
“Irmo? Estë?”  
  
The Healer of Hurts appeared right when she called, a sorrowful look on her face. She bit her lip when she saw the Star Queen’s questioning look.  
  
“I jinxed it, didn’t I?”  
  
Varda sent her a despairing glance and motioned around her to the elegantly dropping snowflakes.  
  
“Please tell me this is all there is to is.”  
  
“I… I’m sorry.”  
  
Varda's eyes gained a panicked expression.  
  
“What else? Oh Eru, what else?”  
  
“Please stay calm Varda, it’s not as bad as it looks!”  
  
“What. Else. Estë?”  
  
“Err… It’s snowing sort of everywhere, for as far as I have seen… But I’m sure it’s not much worse than this…”  
  
That was the moment when Irmo appeared and hurriedly interrupted his wife’s hesitant explanation.  
  
“The sea is freezing, Estë! I was just in Alqualondë and if it continues like this they can walk by foot to Tol Eressëa by tomorrow! Their boats are already stuck in the ice! Not to mention the enormous snowstorm over Tirion. You know things are serious when you have at least thirty Teleri and Noldor in the same room and all they talk about is the weather.”  
  
Varda’s mouth dropped open in appalled astonishment.   
  
“Oh Eru Almighty… I have to go…”  
  


* * *

  
“MANAWENÛZ!”  
  
Varda had to wade through snow that came up to her thighs by the time she reached the halls on Taniquetil. A quick overview of the damage on her way there had told her enough. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine what had gotten into her husband this time, but it was bad. Real bad. There was heavy snowfall all over Aman, going from light snowing over the Gardens of Lorien to a true snowstorm over Tirion, the temperatures in the Pastures had dropped so low that Yavanna had obliged her husband to shelter as much animals as he could in his mansions –which meant as much as THERE WERE RABBITS IN HIS FORGE- and in Alqualondë the Teleri –plus quite a few “climate fugitives” from Tirion- could only watch how the sea froze over. All in all it was a climatological disaster, and even if she managed to stop her husband now there would still be a winter that no one was prepared for… Yet to stop him she first had to find him. She reached out with her mind and probed for Manwë’s presence, eventually locating him in the yard. She hear him before she saw him...  
  
“Snooooooooow!”  
  
Oh no. It was bad enough when Mandos lost his mind, why did this madness also have to hit her husband? Manwë was lying in the snow, happily waving at Varda.  
  
"Hiiiiiiiiii Varda! Look, snow!"  
  
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?”  
  
“It’s SNOW! Isn’t it wonderful? Snow everywhere!”  
  
Varda pulled her grinning husband up and literally dragged him inside, as it seemed that he wasn’t entirely capable of standing straight anymore. Inside she dried Manwë up and looked him in the eyes, touching his mind with her own.   
  
“Manwë dear, what have you done?”  
  
He looked at her with wide eyes and a somewhat silly smile. His pupils were oddly diluted, Varda noted.  
  
“It’s so sad that no one has snow but we. So I made snow for everyone, isn’t that nice of me?” He wiggled his feet and childishly said. “Snow is nice. I like snow.”  
  
His mind felt uncontrolled and very strange. He had definitely done something he shouldn’t have.  
  
“I will ask you again, Manwë. What have you done?”  
  
“Don’t you like snow? I like snow. And cake. Cake is nice too.”  
  
“Cake? What cake?”  
  
Suddenly his eyes widened in shock.  
  
“Oh, no cake, no, there was no cake. Absolutely no cake. And I certainly did not eat all of it.”  
  
Varda knew enough. She rolled her eyes.  
  
“Of course you didn’t.”  
  
“Don’t you like the snow? Are you mad at me?”  
  
Manwë really sounded like a punished child now... Varda sighed and pulled him close, softly caressing his hair.  
  
“I’m not mad at you now, my love. I’m saving that for when you’re sober. Now, you are tired, aren’t you?”  
  
He nodded and curled against her.  
  
“Sleepy.”  
  
“You should sleep then. Come, I’ll put you in bed.”  
  
She thought the two of them to their bedroom and tucked her husband in. He dreamily smiled at her.  
  
“I love you very much, Varda. I love you all the snowflakes in the world!”  
  
Sighing, Varda nodded.  
  
“That's indeed a lot of snowflakes, now.”  
  
Manwë didn’t answer her anymore; he had already fallen asleep with a blissful expression on his face. In the privacy of the room, Varda face-palmed and shook her head.   
  
“I had no idea what I was getting into when I said yes to you.” She looked at him and her expression softened. With a melancholic smile she added, “But I would do it again right away.” She pressed a kiss on his lips and whispered. “I too love you very much, Manwë. I love you all the stars in the sky.”  
  


* * *

  
In the woods of Oromë, the snow had taken two friends by surprise. They were now having roast boar over a campfire in the snow, and the Great Hunter eyed his friend suspiciously. Tulkas frowned.  
  
“Why are you giving me that look?”  
  
“What look?”  
  
“You know, the “What Have You Done Now, You Idiot”-look.”  
  
Tulkas grinned and bit in a piece of juicy meat, and Oromë questioningly raised an eyebrow.  
  
“So you have nothing, nothing at all, to do with this snow?”  
  
“Of course not. How should I have done that? I’m not in the weather business here, as you know.”  
  
“I don’t know. I have learned not to underestimate you.”  
  
“Nah. I am innocent, completely innocent. You know, I think it’s a thank you gift from Manwë.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You know that I love snow, right? Well, maybe he was so happy with this cake I sent him that he decided to send some snow my way.”  
  
“I doubt it… wait, you sent him a cake? Where did you get that? And why?”  
  
But Tulkas had already gotten distracted by other things, namely by in how many ways he could stuff snow in Oromë’s armour, and as the two friends were soon wrestling on the forest floor, the questions went unanswered…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many references in this story. So many references. To everything. I'm like making references to references of reference at times, I think. Referenception! xD
> 
> Anyway, this really is the last chapter. All I have to say about this now is 
> 
> A) High!Manwë is ADORABLE. Like, seriously. Even Varda can't resist the cuteness and she is actually really angry with him.
> 
> B) Please take a moment to imagine the epicness of alround winter in Valinor. I mean, apart from all the Helcaraxë trauma that is sure to resurface among the Noldor, there is loads of awesome. Ice-skating elves! Ice-sculptures in Tirion! (because Noldor. Duh.) Snowball fights! (So. Many. Snowball fights.) and Tulkas randomly jumping on people (read, Oromë) and pushing them in the snow! (No idea why I added that last thing, but it's late here and Tulkas being childish somehow amuses me greatly.)
> 
> C) Has anyone noticed that while all the other Valar become really childish, giggly, and full of bad decisions from Aiwendil's baking, Tulkas actually becomes really mature and serious from it? xD Wonder why that would be... 
> 
> So that's it! Please review, it's appreciated! Tell me if I made you laugh! :D
> 
> PS: I take requests for silly things you want to happen to the Valar and their (not always very) loyal subjects…
> 
> PPS: I'm having an exam tomorrow, so wish me luck! :D


End file.
